Chancing Chaos
by Ell Roche
Summary: Protocol, courting, impropriety, bloodlines, honor, vows: pureblood culture is ever chaotic. A oneshot collection.
1. A Jewel for Your Heart

**Title:** A Jewel for Your Heart

**Pairing:** Harry Potter/Astoria Greengrass

**Warnings:** Malfoy being himself and minor angst.

* * *

Astoria Greengrass hugged her sister and then left Daphne's dormitory. Curfew wasn't for a few hours yet, but she still needed to finish her essay for Charms. Flitwick expected the best from her and she was determined to give it. Only part of that was Ravenclaw pride; the rest was pride in her own intelligence and hard work—not that she bragged about such things. Praising oneself was a crass activity indeed.

Just as she reached the corner of the corridor that would lead into the Slytherin common room, a snotty voice reached her ears. It was immediately identifiable as Draco Malfoy. "Her sister is much prettier."

Rolling her eyes, Astoria prepared to turn the corner so that she could return to her own common room. She wasn't interested in listening to Malfoy's lustful thoughts. She pitied whoever had managed to catch the prat's fancy. Before she could take one step, a deep voice—likely Goyle, she decided—said, "You really think so? Daphne's got great legs."

Bile rose in Astoria's throat as she realized that Draco Malfoy was talking about her. Without conscious thought, her arms folded across her chest as if she could hide in a hug of her own making from the ex-Death Eater. Just because he had evaded Azkaban didn't mean he wasn't a monster.

"But Astoria's a pretty little thing," Malfoy said. His tone of voice clearly spoke of the lewd direction his thoughts had taken.

Astoria trembled and squeezed her eyes shut. The knowledge that Malfoy wanted to touch her made her physically ill. Her lunch, eaten hours ago, roiled in her stomach and threatened to make another appearance. She could all too easily imagine how he would enjoy putting his wife in her place.

"So offer for her," Goyle said.

"I already have. Father sent a preliminary offer today. I expect her parents and mine will have hashed out an unbreakable betrothal contract by Christmas. Then she'll be mine."

Astoria inhaled slowly as she pressed the back of her head against the cold stone wall. Her parents were purebloods, and betrothal contracts were a part of life; however, she had never thought she would have to deal with one. She was always sure of her cleverness and ability to wiggle out of any situation. And unlike most pureblood witches, Astoria knew that her parents actually cared about her. But that didn't mean a contract with the Malfoy family wouldn't appeal to them. Despite Lucius's actions and Draco's stupidity, Narcissa had been smart enough to save Potter's life. That gave them a lot of leeway in the trials and chaos following the war.

Tears pricked at Astoria's eyes, but she refused to let them fall. She had her pureblood pride. And, more importantly, she had an indomitable will. Somehow, someway, she would thwart Malfoy's plans. She would rather marry a Muggle-born than that filthy, prejudiced monster. She might even go as far as to say that she would rather marry a _Muggle_. . . . The thought shocked her with its audacity and she brushed it aside.

It wouldn't come to that. She wouldn't let it.

Astoria straightened her shoulders and lifted her head determinedly. A few wisps of strawberry-blonde hair tumbled out of her ponytail and kissed against her cheeks in tight curls. "Don't let him win," she whispered. Her balled fists uncurled and she smoothed her hands down her robes, ensuring she didn't look the least bit like she had been eavesdropping.

She stepped around the corner and out into the open, ignoring the feel of Malfoy's eyes roaming her body as best she could. She might not have the power to keep his gaze off her, but she would find a way to guarantee his hands never went where his eyes did. She nodded regally to everyone present and then left the common room.

Once the wall closed behind her, Astoria began walking more quickly; she was determined to put as much distance between Malfoy and herself as she possibly could while in the same castle. She walked regally up the stairs leading out of the dungeons, as she had been taught, though every bone in her body wanted to stalk. _Mother would be proud_, she thought as she ignored the urge to stamp her feet.

Her left hand itched to grasp her birch wand, turn around, and curse Malfoy until he begged her forgiveness. She wasn't a toy or a broodmare or a pet to be coddled. Astoria Greengrass was a powerful pureblood witch—only a blind fool would treat her as anything less.

The sounds of students heading to the Great Hall for dinner echoed down the staircase, and she realized she must have spent more time with her sister than she first thought. Then again, who knew how long she had been stuck listening to Malfoy and Goyle?

Astoria reached the main floor just as the voices of several Slytherins came from behind her. She glanced over her shoulder to see that they were also headed up to dinner, as every sane person in the castle would be. Casting magic drained energy more quickly than physical exertion and food replenished it.

Granger and the male Weasley were following Longbottom and the female Weasley into the Great Hall. Each couple's arms were linked and they were so busy making lovesick eyes at each other that they kept tripping over their own feet.

A tingling of magic across her own caused her head to snap to the right. Her eyes narrowed as they locked on Harry Potter, who was descending a moving staircase to the main floor. She was too far away to see his eyes, but she knew they were a deeper green than her own. Potter's eyes were closer to emerald, and she had been informed many times that her eyes were jade.

She absently whispered a line from one of her favorite wizarding ballads. "A jewel for your heart, my King." In the poem, a pureblood witch offered the veela monarch an emerald the size of his head if he would make her his queen. The king refused her. Astoria always cried when she read it, not at the witch's rejection, but because the witch had been foolish enough to believe—as so many others did—that money could buy love. No jewel was equal in value to a human heart.

The strength and power of Potter's magic teased along hers once more, and she observed his every move as thoughts cascaded through her mind. Potter was similar to the veela king: powerful, rich, handsome, and much sought after. And the people who wanted him were shallow and willing to offer nothing but their beauty for a chance to be the next Lady Potter—royalty in every way that mattered.

Astoria had lost count of how often she had heard some variation of 'I want to be Lady Potter' or 'Everyone would listen to me' or 'Think of the prestige'. The witches tittered about his power and wealth and name and victories . . . but never about the man himself in any tangible way. His physical appearance was greatly praised, but nothing was said about his personality, his dreams, his hopes, or what could be given to Potter. It was always about what he would gift to his bride.

"How sad."

Harry Potter wasn't a man to be pitied; she knew he wouldn't tolerate that. However, the way his magic reached out and caressed others' magic told her more than he likely knew, having grown up with Muggles as he did. His wayward magic fairly shouted his loneliness and despair to the moon itself.

The Slytherins were right behind her, and she could hear Malfoy bragging about something or other. He wasn't worth her time; he wasn't the type of wizard who would appreciate a partner. In fact, he was nothing at all like Potter. It was something she had always distantly acknowledged, but the comparison was never clearer or greater to her than in that moment.

Malfoy's jabbering finally halted. Then he said, "My lady, I'm—"

Astoria walked away from him, not caring how rude it might be. She could always stretch the truth later and say she thought he was addressing Daphne. It was a viable possibility; he couldn't gainsay that.

Her feet carried her across the entrance hall to the foot of the staircase that Potter was on. Even if he hadn't been a step above her, she still would have needed to tilt her neck back; he was somewhat taller than her. His eyes didn't rove over her body, which heightened her esteem for him. He simply stared at her face, patiently waiting for her to announce why she had chosen to approach him.

Daringly, Astoria stretched out a tendril of her magic and wrapped it around Potter. She imbued it with warmth, happy memories, and the knowledge that her parents loved her. A wide grin appeared on his face as a light blush suffused his cheeks. His eyes sparked like living emeralds. This was what all those ignorant witches should've offered a wizard as rare in personality as Potter: warmth, happiness, care, and life.

Nerves aflutter in her stomach, Astoria lifted the hem of her robes and sank into a deep curtsey of genuine respect. "Forgive my impropriety, my Lord. I couldn't bear the pain of your magic—not when I know I can assuage that pain."

Potter's rough fingers gently grasped her chin and raised her head; a curl of her hair danced along his skin. "I've seen you before, but I'm afraid I've never learned your name."

A small smile curved her lips. "Lady Astoria Greengrass."

Potter folded one of her hands in his larger one and lifted her back up to her feet. "It's a pleasure, Lady Astoria. I'm Lord Potter." When she didn't offer an inane 'I know', his smile widened. "And there's nothing to forgive," he replied as her magic blanketed his own.

When Harry lifted her hand and pressed a kiss to the back of it, she was only vaguely aware of Malfoy's magic seething behind her as its master snarled and shouted. The sound of blood pounding in her ears drowned out almost everything else. She felt the heat in her cheeks, but didn't avert her eyes coyly. Astoria wasn't the type of witch to lower herself to playing flirting games, and Potter wasn't the type of wizard who deserved to be treated like a brainless rake.

"Would you join me for dinner, Lady Astoria?" Potter asked.

"It would be my pleasure." Once he took the final step and was level with her, Astoria looped her arm through his and let him escort her to dinner.

As they passed the Slytherins, her eyes lingered on Malfoy's enraged countenance for only a moment before skipping to her sister. Daphne's gaze was calculating, but not disapproving in the least. Astoria knew her sister would write home of these events, destroying Malfoy's plans to secure her as his bride. However, that was merely a distant, pleasurable thought.

The tingling sensation caused by Potter's magic entwining with hers secured the majority of her attention. And though she knew she would soon be given leave to call him 'Harry', she could only hope to one day address him and say, "A jewel for your heart, my King."

And the jewel Astoria Greengrass would offer Harry Potter wouldn't be an emerald the size of his head. No. She would offer her own heart—herself.


	2. Of Ancestry and Honor

**Title:** Of Ancestry and Honor

**Pairing:** James Potter/Lily Evans, James Potter/OFC

**Warning:** AU, drama, and implied nudity.

* * *

One month before the start of his seventh year at Hogwarts, a house-elf summoned James Potter to the parlor in Potter Manor. He gritted his teeth, knowing what was coming. It wouldn't be pleasant, but he had given his parents his word of honor. Nothing would cause him to break it. He inhaled deeply and stepped into the room.

"James, darling, have a seat," Dorea Potter said, gesturing to the armchair that was opposite the loveseat she occupied with her husband.

"Yes, Mum." He did as she requested, palms sweating the slightest bit. At least Sirius was over at Remus's house for the day and wouldn't be able to tease him about the situation.

"Did you manage to secure Miss Evans' affections for you?" Charlus Potter asked.

James squeezed his eyes shut behind his glasses and bit his tongue. He had tried everything to get Lily to return his love, and she had merely thrown it back at him as if the Potter bloodline and honor meant less than the grime beneath Snivellus's fingernails. He had been so sure that she would realize how earnest he was and how disrespectful her own comments about him were. . . . She hadn't.

"No, Dad. I've been informed that she wouldn't consider me if I were the last living wizard." The cruel words still cut deeply, resounding through his head day and night. He might have been childish a few years ago, but all young teenagers were. Those words were more vicious than anything the Marauders had ever spewed at Snivellus.

His mother's nose wrinkled in distaste, and James could see her make the connection between the blatant lack of respect and Lily Evans' Muggle-born status. His parents weren't bigots, but they wouldn't tolerate people who couldn't act politely and properly. There were many graceful ways to rebuke someone's intentions without being heartless.

"I see," said Dorea, lips twisting in a moue of satisfaction. "Then you won't have any objections to keeping up your side of the bargain."

James's parents had offered him the same arrangement each Potter Heir received when he first went to Hogwarts: If he found someone to love before his seventh year, he could bond with her if she would have him. If not, he would be required to submit himself to several pureblood marriage dates in the hope of finding a compatible partner.

"No objections, Mum. I won't go back on my word." Both of his parents smiled at him and nodded their approval. "But I would like to make a request. Is that acceptable?"

Charlus stretched out his legs and grasped his wife's hand. "It depends on the request."

James thrust a hand through his hair as his cheeks colored. "I don't want to marry anyone older than I am," he admitted. "And please don't pick women taller than me!" he blurted out. He was only five-foot-ten, and he didn't expect to get much taller. Several pureblood families birthed witches at least his height, if not over. Leaning up to kiss his wife would be too embarrassing to endure.

Charlus chuckled, shoulders hitching with his amusement and eyes sparkling. "I think we can handle those requests. Don't you, dear?"

"Of course," said Dorea, lips twitching. "They're very reasonable."

Still blushing, James got to his feet and nodded. "Well then, I'll just go . . . fly or something."

"Not yet, young man. You don't want to be late for your first date, would you? What kind of example would that set? The Noble and Most Ancient House of Potter would be quite shamed by your absence."

His mother's amusement was all that kept him from fainting in shock. _Today?_ It was all going to start today? He had expected at least a few days for his parents to arrange a preliminary marriage date with a suitable family given his criteria. It was as if his mother knew what he—

"Of course I know your tastes in women, darling. You are my only son, after all." Dorea smiled tenderly and then stood. She feathered a hand through his wild black hair and kissed his forehead. "Go change, darling. You're meeting in less than an hour."

"An hour?" James's jaw dropped as he turned and ran from the parlor, his mother's laughter trailing him down the hallway. While he wasn't overly excited about these marriage dates, he had given his word, and he didn't want to shame his family or himself. How would he possibly have time to acquire a first meeting gift? "Mum must already have one," he grumbled.

James tore into his bedchamber and ripped open his armoire; it might look like a regular piece of antique furniture from the outside, but it was an enormous walk-in wardrobe with its own sitting area. He tugged his shirt over his head and dropped it on the floor; his socks and trousers joined it almost immediately. Formalwear was required, that was for sure.

"Lagnok!"

The air beside him was disturbed as his personal house-elf appeared. "Yes, Master James?"

"I need to shower. I'm going on a preliminary marriage date. Please have appropriate clothes prepared when I leave the shower," said James.

"Finally!" Lagnok muttered. "It will be done."

James entered his en suite bathroom, stripped the rest of the way down, and got in the shower. He knew that Lagnok had never approved of Lily—not since the house-elf found out she had called James a 'toe-rag'. At the time he had laughed it off, but he couldn't do that anymore. Ever since her vicious statement on the Hogwarts Express at the end of the year—that she would never consider him—he had been forced to reexamine all their interactions. It hurt to realize he had been so blind. Lily tended to treat him and Sirius as most of the Slytherins treated Muggle-borns; it was reverse prejudice, and he hated it.

Yes, James and the Marauders had been bullying gits to Snivellus. However, Snivellus had honestly started it. James had merely been seeking recompense, as any pureblood would. Everything got blown out of proportion, and then Lily had involved herself in the dispute. The first prank against Snivellus would've solved everything and canceled out the problem, but then Snivellus had dared to malign James's heritage. And so, as honor demanded, he declared a blood feud against Snivellus.

Sirius had taken it upon himself, since he was essentially James's adopted brother, to bring the feud to its natural conclusion. However, as they weren't yet of age, such a result would've been disastrous for them. And Remus was not a weapon; he was a friend. Now Snivellus owed James a life debt, which voided the blood feud. As far as the Marauders were concerned, Snivellus didn't even exist anymore. Honor was satisfied.

James stretched as he left the shower, turning in a circle beneath the lion statue that breathed warm air on him. He always loathed the necessity of towels at Hogwarts. Being dried off by family magic always felt so comforting, as if nothing could touch him.

He padded over to the marble vanity and picked up his glasses. He stared at the lenses for a moment, and then twirled them by one earpiece. He had worn them for over six years now. His mum had Transfigured them for his eleventh birthday party as a joke; he had kept them. He wore them to Hogwarts as a prank, pretending he was in disguise. He kept wearing them because he thought they might make him look studious and attract Lily's attention.

"Time to grow up," James whispered. "Time to stop catering to others." He folded them carefully—they were a gift from his mum after all—and set them back on the vanity. He stared in the mirror, shocked at how different his face looked without them. He had his mother's high cheekbones, his father's strong jaw, and his grandfather's burning hazel eyes.

"You look smashing, dear. The witches will be crawling all over you. Especially if you go out like that." The mirror whistled at him and James blushed and rushed from the bathroom to clothe himself.

James yanked on his boxers before glancing at what Lagnok had laid out for him: black dress trousers, dragon-hide boots, a white dress shirt, a gold cravat, and a burnished red, open front, knee-length dress robe. "Wow!" James was somewhat dazzled by the splendor, because he and Sirius tended to avoid the formal side of their wardrobes as much as possible. He couldn't remember the last time he had worn something this resplendent.

After dressing, he stalked over to the full-length mirror in his wardrobe. "Well, look who's expensive and devilishly handsome this morning," said the mirror.

He was too stunned to blush. He looked like an adult—a true pureblood heir—someone with the talent, wealth, and knowledge to challenge the world and emerge the victor.

Lagnok appeared at his side. "Is Master pleased?"

"Yes," James breathed.

"Good." Lagnok smirked his pleasure at the comment. "Mistress is being in the parlor. She is having the gift."

"Right. The gift. Of course." James shook his head roughly, which caused his hair to swish about his face. Maybe this wouldn't be as horrible as he had first thought. . . . James strode out of his room and down to the parlor.

Dorea stood when he entered the room and grinned at him. "You look wonderful, darling. All grown up. And I daresay you cut a dashing figure in that," she said as she smoothed her hands over his shoulders and down his arms.

"Thanks, Mum," he muttered, embarrassed once again. James ducked his head and rubbed his right forearm, where he always kept his wand in the invisible holster. He never took it off; only a fool would willingly remove their first line of defense. "The gift?" he asked. Technically, he should have chosen it himself. However, he hadn't known about this marriage date until about an hour ago, and he knew his mum and dad wouldn't tell anyone about the break in protocol. James would bet that most mothers helped their sons choose such gifts.

"I have it right here." Dorea turned and lifted a smallish box off an antique yew table. "I'm sure she'll like it." She removed the lid of the beribboned box to reveal a hair ornament. It was blown glass—a tasteful sculpture of forget-me-nots that would complement any hair color.

James reached out and touched the fragile glass. "It's lovely, Mum." Any girl who wouldn't appreciate something like this had no taste and wouldn't be a good match for him. He accepted the box from his mother and replaced the lid. "Where am I going? Who am I meeting?" he asked breathlessly. The weight of the gift in his hand made this all the more real, and he found himself strangely anticipating the marriage date, wondering what witch his mother considered most worthy of him.

"You have lunch reservations at The Golden Fleece," Dorea said.

It was an exclusive restaurant and club in Diagon Alley, and James hadn't used his family's membership in years. He had heard that a Squib from the Black family had changed his name and opened a mimicry of it centuries ago in the Muggle world and dared to call it White's after his assumed name. But that was, from what he had heard, a club for gentleman only. The Golden Fleece was for purebloods only—wizards and witches—and the best purebloods at that. It was also a safe haven from feuds and such. Offensive magic didn't work inside the wards. More than one Dark Lord had sought to subjugate the rich only to be run through with a sword or two.

"And?" James asked excitedly. What was her name?

"And you'll just have to find out."

"Mum!"

"Now shoo. You're about to be late, darling."

Grumbling, James turned on his heel and Disapparated. He reappeared inside a room that was floor-to-ceiling yellow marble: the Apparation chamber at The Golden Fleece. A house-elf appeared and bowed to him, before turning to lead the way. He passed the fencing chamber and the chess room before following his guide into an intimate tearoom that overlooked an oriental garden.

In direct opposition of most wizards' opinion on the subject, James adored tea ceremonies. He appreciated the elegant nature of a pureblood witch's turn of wrist as she poured the tea. It was grace and beauty in motion; he had learned that at his mother's knee as a child.

James set the wrapped gift on the low table and then knelt on a large silken cushion. It was as soft as his pillows at home, much to his pleasure. As soon as he was comfortable, the door opened. James rose to his feet with alacrity, but without appearing like a fool. Of his many faults, clumsiness wasn't one of them.

"Lady Isadore Vaisey," the house-elf said before bowing and moving to the side.

The witch who walked through the door was a more frigid version of Narcissa Malfoy. She was slender, and had pale blue eyes and hair so fair that it was almost white. Her face was expressionless, and he couldn't help but wonder why his mother had thought she was most worthy of the first preliminary marriage date. She was beautiful, there was no doubt about it, but she was beautiful as marble was beautiful—hard and cold and lifeless.

"I'm Heir James Potter," he said, valiantly keeping his disappointment to himself as he bowed and searched his mind for any knowledge of her. He knew her family was neutral and that she was a year younger than him. In fact, he vaguely remembered a Ravenclaw prefect last year who must have been her. What little he recalled was her sitting properly and never speaking to anyone.

_Great_, he thought, _a snob of the highest order. Perhaps this is Mum's payback for something I did that annoyed her_.

She stepped into the tearoom and lifted the hem of her deep turquoise robes; Isadore sank into a respectful curtsey and whispered, "I'm honored, Heir Potter. P-please call me I-Isadore."

The stutter was barely audible, but he didn't miss it; his years of sneaking around under his invisibility cloak and learning secrets served him well. The brief stutter reminded him of when he had first tried to befriend Remus, who was shy and feared no one would like him because he was a werewolf. For a pureblood lady's stutter to be audible . . . she had to be shy in the extreme. But she also had undeniable courage, and she must already have some affection for him since she had offered her given name so readily.

James retrieved the gift from the table as she rose from her curtsey. Her hands trembled the slightest bit, and he acknowledged that his first impression had been entirely incorrect; she was scared, not snobbish. He should've known better than to try and judge a lady at a glance. "Then feel free to call me James." A delicate blush colored her pale cheeks and he felt victory swell within at the sight.

He took several steps forward and extended the beribboned box. "For you, Lady Isadore." When she accepted it, he couldn't help but compare their hands; his were significantly larger than her own. He was also at least six inches taller than she was. Standing beside her made him feel powerful and protective.

"Thank you, Heir James," she whispered, head tilted down. When she opened the box, a flash of unadulterated delight consumed her visage, causing James's breath to catch in his throat. Her manicured nails traced the delicate glass blossoms. "Would y-you put it in my h-hair?"

If James hadn't been standing so close, he never would have heard the request. He grinned and replied, "Of course." He carefully removed the hair decoration from the box and raised it, sliding the comb part into the silky smooth hair behind her left ear. Once it was securely in place—and from its quality he knew it would be Charmed not to slip or come free—he lowered his hands and stared at the sight of the forget-me-nots in her hair. "Beautiful," he murmured.

"It is," she agreed.

James ducked his head so he could stare straight into her eyes. "I didn't mean just the comb."

"Oh." A deeper blush consumed her face and her hands started shaking again.

He grasped one carefully and escorted her to the table, a wide grin on his face each step of the way. Perhaps his mother knew him better than he knew himself. James kissed the knuckles of her hand before walking to the other side of the table. He waited until she had knelt before copying her. As soon as she started silently serving the tea, slender wrists and fingers dancing gracefully, the final weight of doom vanished from James's shoulders.

There was nothing agonizing about this marriage date. In fact, the future looked brighter than it had since Lily Evans had cruelly verbally assaulted his honor and ancestry.

(o)

Time passed as it was wont to do, and James couldn't remember a happier time in his life. Sirius had only teased him for three days, because then his mum had set up a marriage date for Sirius. Sirius had since been declaring over and over how perfect Leanne McLaggen was.

James's only contact with Lily Evans was fleeting. Though they were in many of the same classes, he never sat near her and he never sought her out. Other than polite greetings and their mandatory communication as head boy and girl, people might have assumed they didn't know each other at all.

James's eyes lit up when Dumbledore entered the prefects' meeting and announced, "We've decided to host a Yule Ball this year."

He glanced surreptitiously down the table at Isadore, whose eyes betrayed her excitement. Protocol didn't allow for dancing outside an official function, and he had longed to hold her in his arms and prove to everyone how truly compatible they were.

"We've allocated a budget and we're allowing the twenty-six of you to plan the event." Dumbledore's eyes twinkled brightly. "Your first meeting is scheduled for tomorrow morning, so I suggest you create strategies to convince your fellow prefects tonight. Good night!"

As the students chattered excitedly and started leaving the room, James leapt to his feet. Elation waltzed through him as images of Isadore clutched tightly to him danced through his mind.

"James?"

"Hmm?"

"James!"

He shook the thoughts from his head and glanced to the right. "Yes, Miss Evans?" he asked, one eyebrow raised. What could Lily possibly want now? He needed to immediately secure Isadore as his partner. Besides, she was patiently waiting for him by the doorway, and no true gentleman kept his lady waiting.

Lily looked flabbergasted for a moment at the formal address, but then smiled up at him. "I, uh, I've noticed how much you changed over the summer. You've matured a lot, James."

"Thank you," he replied. It was the only acceptable response, no matter how little her opinion meant. He turned to leave, but froze when he felt a hand on his arm. Shock spread through him and appeared on Isadore's face as well. Witches weren't supposed to just grab wizards—that was so improper and unexpected that he couldn't move or speak.

"I was hoping that . . . well . . ." Lily pursed her lips and then blurted, "I think I'm in love with you! Will you take me to the dance?"

Several months ago, James would likely have ignored the breech of propriety and good manners, but not anymore. He stepped to the side, removing his arm from her grasp. Isadore's face had crumpled at the question, and he wouldn't allow her to believe for one moment that he still preferred Lily Evans. Lily's rude assumptions enraged him more than her unearned insults and almost as much as the pain on Isadore's face.

He gritted his teeth and clenched his jaw. "No. You don't get to say that. Not now. Not anymore. It's too late. I already found someone who loves me back." He ignored how pale she had become and bit out, "Excuse me."

James turned on his heel and walked away from the shell-shocked girl; he could feel her eyes following him in disbelief. What had she expected? That he would forgive all of her transgressions and cast aside his honor? She had never even apologized to him! The nerve!

Inhaling deeply to calm himself, James offered his hand to Isadore. She placed her own smaller one in his grasp, eyes beaming her joy at him. He kissed her knuckles and asked, "Lady Isadore, would you do me the honor of allowing me to escort you to the Yule Ball?"

Isadore's unoccupied hand rose and caressed his cheek. "The honor is m-mine, Heir James."

He ignored the loud, indrawn breath behind them and leaned into the caress. This was what he wanted for the rest of his life: care, beauty, gentleness, and love. "Forgive me for assuming to know your heart," James whispered, suddenly embarrassed at remembering his declaration of Isadore's love for him.

"I f-forgive you." She glanced down at the floor before meeting his eyes as bravely as any Gryffindor. "Your words were true, after all. At least on my part."

James wondered if it was possible to choke on happiness as the words resounded through him. "I assure you, my Lady, the implied emotions on my part are just as true." The unspoken three words echoed from his eyes to hers as he shifted his head and pressed a kiss to the palm of her hand.

Isadore glanced at both of her hands, which he held captive, and then nodded. The light in the room reflected off the glass comb he had given her, making the flowers shine radiantly. "I assure you, James"—his heart fair burst at the use of his first name by itself—"I shall never forget."


	3. Of Heartbreak and Approbation

**Title:** Of Heartbreak and Approbation

**Pairing:** Neville Longbottom/Haesel Potter

**Warnings:** AU, genderbend, sexual insinuations, and some angst.

* * *

Haesel Potter perched upon the window seat in her chambers, hands fisted so tightly that her smooth nails bit into her palms. Her reflection in the windowpane was pale and melancholy, bordering on lifeless. Her usually riotous curls hung limp to her waist, and her pale blue eyes resembled frozen tears.

"Why?" The word was barely audible, but it clamored louder than a dying scream in her mind.

It wasn't supposed to be like this. Her seventeenth birthday should have been the best day of her life, but each day that existed past it only increased her suffering. Today was August 14, which meant it had been two weeks since her birthday. That was fourteen days without a letter.

Haesel had hoped he would send one on his own birthday, even though it was a day early, but he hadn't. So she had convinced herself it would come on her birthday and be the best present ever. It hadn't.

Two hawks and an owl flew past her window, each carrying a letter on thick parchment. She squeezed her eyes shut and inhaled deeply, chest shaking with the effort to lock away any more sobs. _He_ owned an eagle.

"What's wrong with me?" she whispered.

He had never promised to send an offer, but she had been so sure that he would. It was something she intrinsically knew, just as she knew James and Isadore Potter were her parents. Haesel had known since she was eleven years old that she wanted no one but him.

"If only—" Her throat closed as she tried to eliminate the thoughts and questions that harassed her. If only a pureblood witch could offer for a wizard. She would have penned him the moment she came of age.

"Neville . . . why?"

He had been her best friend since childhood. They had saved each other's lives more than once, and there were no secrets between them. Haesel believed with all her heart that he had known she was in love with him. Yet an offer never came—not from him. That could only mean that . . .

She couldn't bear to finish the thought.

Haesel leaned her cheek against the warm glass, wishing it were winter. Then the glass would be cold and frosted over; it would more closely align with how she felt inside.

A sharp, rapping sound echoed through her room, but she ignored it. She didn't want to hear about the newest suitors for her hand. She didn't want to attend any more marriage dates; she didn't want to be forced to smile and accept another expensive gift from someone who only wanted her for her power or beauty.

For not the first time in the past two weeks, Haesel cursed her petite frame. Short and slender pureblood witches had always been the most sought after; it was a sign of great power. Her own mother was slight, but Haesel's power exceeded even Isadore Potter's.

At five-foot-three, Haesel sometimes felt like a child. The wizards her own age were significantly taller than her, and she loathed looking up at others. Even though her height made her prestigious, desirable, Neville had never viewed her like that. He befriended her when she was very young and slightly taller than him, before anyone could've known what she would grow to be—the most powerful witch of her generation. And where many of the taller wizards unnerved her, Neville made her feel completely safe.

The door hinges didn't creak, but Haesel felt it open. Her chambers were keyed to her magical signature to keep her safe, and she knew whenever anyone other than her opened a door or window or secret passage. As it was, only she had the ability to Portkey or Apparate to or from her chambers. Not even her father, the future Lord of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Potter could intrude on her privacy in such a way.

Light footsteps padded across the wood floor, and then Haesel's eyes met her mother's in the glass. Isadore lifted a hand and tentatively brushed it down Haesel's black curls. "You've been up here all day."

"I know." Her nightgown was rumpled, as she hadn't bothered to dress for the day.

"Lagnok told me you haven't eaten," Isadore chided gently.

"I haven't," Haesel said. She couldn't even feel upset that her father's favorite house-elf had tattled on her. It was part of his duties to ensure the welfare of their entire family.

Isadore wrapped her arms around Haesel tightly, offering silent comfort. It didn't help as much as it normally did. "How can I fix it?" Isadore asked.

A tender smile was reflected in the glass as Haesel's lips curved the barest bit. Her mother was a truly remarkable witch; she didn't bother asking if something was wrong, or what was wrong—she just demanded to know how whatever was wrong could be made right, and then she would do it.

But this time . . . "You can't." The two words tasted of broken hearts and shattered dreams.

For the first time in her life, hard work, money, her name, and her societal position couldn't be used to get what she wanted. Haesel Potter wasn't ignorant; she knew that nothing could purchase love. True love wasn't for sale. And if Neville Longbottom wasn't in love with her—as the lack of an offer for marriage dates and courtship clearly proved—then she knew he would never be hers.

Her father appeared in the doorway and walked toward them, a frown twisting his face in an expression Haesel had rarely seen her whole life. Joy usually lit his face day and night.

"If one of the suitors did something inappropriate I—"

"They did nothing wrong," she said, interrupting him before his imagination could take hold of the erroneous thought. She had no desire to learn where it might lead him.

Haesel shivered as she was forced to remember her four marriage dates. She had never felt more uncomfortable in her entire life than when Draco Malfoy kissed her hand; she still couldn't believe her parents had allowed the supercilious prat a chance at all. She wasn't blind enough to think he was interested in her for any other reason than providing him heirs, and she would rather die than touch his bed, let alone lie in it.

Isadore pursed her lips and tightened her hold on Haesel. "You're sure we can't fix it?"

"Yes, I'm sure," replied Haesel, wishing she could beg her parents to make everything better. Such actions would serve no purpose.

James reached forward and lightly grasped her chin, pulling her gaze away from the window. The hazel eyes that met her own were identical to her younger brother's, and dearly loved. "If we can't fix it, can you?"

_Can I?_ she asked herself. Could she make a difference? If so, how?

Tradition and law declared that only wizards could send offers for contracts relating to marriage prospects, so she couldn't offer for him. Love alone guided a human heart, so she couldn't make him love her. So . . . no, there was nothing she could do to make Neville her own, or herself Neville's.

The smile on her face was so bitterly accepting that it pained her parents' hearts. "I'll be okay." Those three words were the biggest lie she had ever told.

"That's not what your father asked, darling. If we can't fix it, can you?" asked Isadore.

Tears stung her eyes, but she barred them from falling as she untangled herself from her parents and got to her feet. She was so pale now that her white nightgown might've been mistaken as part of her skin if it hadn't been so wrinkly. Her eyes were trained on her bare feet as she announced, "Not even you can make him love me, Mum. Not even you can make him consider me worthy enough to be his, Dad."

Ignoring the sharp intakes of breath, she turned and entered her bathroom, shutting and locking the door behind her. She mindlessly stripped and entered the bubble bath Lagnok had drawn for her hours before. It was as warm as she preferred, not that she expected anything different.

For an irrational moment, hatred welled inside Haesel. Her parents were the fairytale romance, especially among the purebloods. James Potter and Isadore Vaisey had been the love of their generation, outshining Lucius Malfoy and Narcissa Black.

Haesel had always believed that she and Neville would attain that distinction, too. Now it was nothing more than a splintered daydream.

Small hands pressed to her flat stomach, Haesel bit her lower lip harshly. She had longed for children of her own, for a family of her own making, for years now. However, that might not be possible now. The thought of anyone but Neville touching her in an intimate way made her magic crawl beneath her skin. She trusted him alone to not ill-use her.

Haesel was well aware of the many eyes that followed her in public, but especially at Hogwarts. Wizards gazed upon her with lust and desire, as if she was nothing but an attractive vessel that they could own for life to slake their passion in.

The purebloods were wise enough to hide it; the half-bloods succeeded for the most part, but some of the Muggle-born students were crass enough to not only leer, but also speak their filthy thoughts aloud.

In fact, Neville had broken Dean Thomas's jaw the week before the school year ended when he suggested something that Haesel wished she could banish from her memory.

Her fingers smoothed shampoo through her hair, scrubbing it clean and teasing the tangles apart as she recalled the utter rage on Neville's face as his fist connected with Thomas's cheekbone. He had always been protective of her, but that one instant in time was when she had managed to convince herself that he returned her feelings.

"Apparently he was protecting his _sister's_ honor," she muttered. The thought that he cared for her enough to protect her honor didn't help. It only emphasized the fact that his love for her was familial and not romantic.

Once she finished bathing, Haesel rose from the bathwater and stood beneath the statue of the tree that was her namesake. Leaves fluttered down and spun around her like a miniature tornado, drying her with the family magic. This one thing, at least, was as comforting as always.

Haesel entered her closet, which was even larger than the bathroom it was attached to, and stared at herself in the mirror. She was a candle that was sputtering, a flame that was almost out of wick, once bright, but now rapidly dimming.

Reaching forward, she touched her reflection; she traced the darkening circles under her eyes, which brought them to her attention. Her magic sped through her body and healed them, bringing some color to her face.

"You look unhappy, dear," her mirror said.

"No," Haesel stated factually, "I look pathetic." This witch in the mirror wasn't her. She didn't loaf around in her pajamas for days on end and bemoan her place in life. She didn't sit and allow time to pass her by; Haesel had always been one to go and do.

The Sorting Hat had placed her in Gryffindor for a reason. If she had the courage to defy tradition and have a wizard as a best friend, she could bloody well ask him who had his heart, since it obviously wasn't hers to hold.

Haesel dressed with care, choosing a set of pale blue robes with a silver tree—her namesake—embroidered along the hem. They matched her eyes, and Neville had insisted more than once that she looked best in blues.

She opened the ninth drawer of her jewelry armoire and removed the hair-combs he had given her for her fourteenth birthday. It was a set of six antique silver combs, each engraved with a magical creature in a whimsical way. Her favorite had always been the unicorn, because it represented the purity she planned to gift him with someday—back when that had been a possible outcome.

A petty part of her mind suggested that she make herself as beautiful as possible, so that he would see exactly what he had given up. She couldn't seem to overcome it. For the first time in her life, Haesel donned all the 'proper' items that she never wore when she visited Neville. For once, she didn't feel she had the right to flaunt propriety when it came to him. She tugged the small, intricate lace gloves on her hands, and then slid on matching walking slippers before reaching for the parasol that completed the set.

"You look beautiful and proper, dear," said the mirror.

Haesel agreed with it, but she still didn't look like she was planning to visit Neville. This outfit was too proper, too formal, too distant, and perhaps just the armor she needed to keep from bursting into tears the moment she saw him.

"You can do this," she told herself. Her mirror reflection mouthing the words back at her was what finally gave her the push she needed to follow through with her plan. Taking a deep breath, she marched determinedly into her room.

James and Isadore stood up from where they had been waiting in the window seat and stared at her in disbelief. "You look lovely, darling," said Isadore.

Her father nodded his agreement before asking, "Where are you going dressed like that?"

"To find out who stole my place in his heart." Before they could speak another word, she turned on her heel and Disapparated.

Haesel reappeared in the foyer of Longbottom Manor just as Lady Longbottom stepped into it. Before she could offer a greeting, Alice Longbottom said, "I think it would be best if you leave, dear."

"What?" The word barely managed to escape her throat. Alice couldn't have possibly just politely kicked her out of her home, could she?

"I doubt he could bear to see you," said Alice.

Haesel stumbled backward, as if the words were a physical blow. Her arms fell limp at her sides, and the parasol tumbled from her slackened grip to clatter against the floor. He couldn't bear to even look at her anymore? Who had stolen him so completely away from her? "Why?" she asked.

The smile on Alice's face was pained and sympathetic. "He needs time, dear."

"For what?" asked Haesel. What did Neville need time for? Time for whatever witch he was courting? Time alone? Privacy while he sought another's love? Each thought was more vicious and agonizing than the last.

"To accept that you'll never love him as a woman loves her husband," Frank Longbottom said from the doorway of the front parlor.

"I don't understand," Haesel said. What were they talking about? She _did_ love Neville as a woman loves a man.

"Please give him until the school year starts to try to put this behind him, dear. That's all we ask," Alice said.

"What are you talking about? Put what behind him?" Haesel felt as if she had accidentally Apparated into a foreign country; she couldn't make any sense out of the words they spoke.

"Your family's rejection of his courtship offer, of course. Are you feeling all right, Haesel?" Frank asked.

Haesel felt like she was going to faint, swoon and crumple to the floor like all those pathetic women in old-fashioned novels. "My family's rejection of his courtship offer?" she repeated dazedly. That couldn't be right. It wasn't right! She hadn't heard anything about such an offer, and she would never have rejected it.

"Yes, dear. I must admit we were surprised when James replied that you thought of Neville as a brother. Frank and I had been so sure that—"

Haesel swayed alarmingly, causing Alice to gasp in worry and rush forward to steady her. Her father had refused Neville's offer because he thought she loved Neville like a brother? He couldn't possibly be that blind! Surely she wasn't that accomplished at hiding her true feelings! Yet, her mother must have agreed with him. That meant . . .

"Where is he?" The words spilled from her lips as a soft sigh.

"I still don't think now is a good tim—"

Implacable resolve steeled her spine as she bit out her question once more. "Where. Is. He?"

"He hasn't left his room in two weeks," Frank replied.

A bitter laugh echoed through the foyer as she ripped herself from Alice's gentle hold and raced toward the grand staircase. They were alike, even in their suffering. Except for the marriage dates she had been obligated to attend, she had shut herself away in her chambers, too. Tears stung her eyes, but didn't fall. She had to make this right.

"Where do you think you're going, young lady?" Frank yelled as he followed her.

"She can't possibly be thinking of . . ."

Haesel tuned them out as she hitched up her robes in an unladylike fashion and sprinted through the manor. Though she had never been in Neville's bedroom before, she knew exactly where it was. She might not hold to most protocol when it came to her best friend, but even she had never crossed the threshold into his private chambers, just as he had never been into hers.

As pureblood heirs, as the social elite, as moral human beings, such a thing was taboo. Right now, Haesel didn't care in the least.

If Frank and Alice had cast spells at her, they would've caught her before she did the unthinkable. However, likely due to their love for her, they did not. She would be ever grateful for that oversight on their part.

Haesel paused outside his bedroom door for just a moment, and then daringly twisted the knob and thrust the door open. It slammed against the wall behind it, causing Neville to shoot up in his bed and stare at her in disbelief.

One step was all that stood between her and crossing a line her parents would be horrified to learn she had even briefly considered crossing. She took it.

Neville gazed at her with blatant longing in his eyes, which was overshadowed by the deepest pain. He shared in the torture her father had unknowingly and blindly bestowed upon them. "I'm not sure if this is the best dream or worst nightmare of my life," he said, as she walked across the room and stood at his bedside.

His blond hair was a total mess, scruffier than she had ever seen it. Haesel stripped off her gloves, dropped them on his floor, and then reached forward and burrowed her slender fingers into his hair. It was almost unbearably soft. He sighed and leaned into her touch.

"Definitely the best dream. You feel real, love. I can almost pretend you're actually here," he said.

Lord and Lady Longbottom appeared in the doorway, breathing harder than Haesel was. "Haesel, you will remove yourself from my son's bedroom at once!" Alice ordered, looking curiously scandalized at Haesel's improper behavior.

Neville groaned, head pulling away from her hands to thump back against his pillows. "Worst nightmare, then."

Disregarding Alice's demand, Haesel placed her hands on Neville's cheeks and jolted him with her magic. His eyes widened so far she feared he would never again be able to close them all the way. "You're here."

"I'm here," she agreed.

Neville glanced from his thunderous mother, who was marching over to physically remove Haesel from the room, back to her. "Why?"

After a quick peek at Alice, Haesel decided to ensure that she and Neville would get what they wanted. Her father and mother had foolishly rejected the formal offer, which forbade the House of Longbottom from sending another. _This is the only way_, she told herself.

In direct violation of all she had been taught to respect and believe in, Haesel joined Neville on his bed. Everyone but her froze in stunned disbelief at the action she had taken; that gave her enough time to say, "My father's a complete imbecile."

Before anyone could react to that announcement, she flushed a deep red, leant down, and brushed her lips against Neville's. It was so soft she almost hadn't felt their lips connect. When Neville's tongue came out to taste where she had kissed him, she blushed even harder and turned away, sliding quickly off the bed.

Haesel kept her gaze trained on her slippers as she said, "Lord Longbottom, I'm quite afraid that your son has compromised me. Honor demands that we be allowed to bond or shame our families and dishonor our heritage for all time."

"Lady Haesel Potter," Frank said solemnly, though a quick peek showed his lips were twitching, "I must apologize for my son's inappropriate attentions before marriage. I swear that this matter will be resolved speedily and honorably, without gaining the notice of anyone outside our two noble families."

"That is acceptable." She wrapped her arms around herself, sighing in relief when Neville folded his arms around her and hugged her to his chest. She hadn't even heard him leave the bed. "Can I stay here? I don't think I could bear to look at Mum and Dad when you tell them I—"

"Tell them it's my fault," Neville said.

"No!" Haesel pressed her cheek against his chest and winced. "I would rather he think I acted like a hoyden in the name of love than that you were a dishonorable rake who wouldn't take 'no' for an answer and dragged me into your bedroom."

Alice walked over and patted Haesel's arm. "Your father will understand. In fact, I daresay he'll blame himself for putting you in this situation."

"She's right," said Frank.

"I hope so," Haesel said. Disappointing her parents was one of her greatest fears.

"I know so," Frank replied.

Neville leaned down and buried his head in her curls, inhaling her sweet fragrance. He nudged each comb, his magic radiating pure pleasure. As his hold tightened, Haesel wished to forever remain in his arms.

Moments later, much too short a time, Neville released her. "Please leave, darling."

"Neville?" He wanted her to leave?

Neville's eyes blazed with fire and love as they bore into Haesel. She felt heat rush to her cheeks and nibbled her lower lip; it was both like and unlike the looks she got from the wizards at school: he clearly wanted her, but she could tell it was because he loved her. That made all the difference. His passion wasn't scary, because she knew he would never harm her.

"I spent the last two weeks thinking you would never be mine," he gritted out, face wretched in its mask of remembered heartbreak. "Now that nothing can stop you from being mine . . ." Neville closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. "Please don't make this harder on me, love."

Haesel knelt down and retrieved the lacy gloves she had dropped shortly after her entrance into his chambers. She stepped forward and folded his large, tan, callused hand around them. "So that you'll know my hand is yours," she whispered before hurrying out of his bedroom.

After crossing the threshold for the second time that day, she glanced over her shoulder. Her small, lace gloves were cradled in Neville's hand. He nuzzled them slowly and then inhaled with his nose pressed against them, being as gentle and tender as he had always been with her.

This unvoiced affirmation of his respect and love for her justified the choice she had made. Even if her grandmother was horrified, even if her grandfather was furious, even if her parents were disappointed, even if word somehow got out and she was labeled a 'trollop', she wouldn't care.

His approbation was the only one that mattered.


	4. Rumors, Romance, and Romilda

**Title:** Rumors, Romance, and Romilda

**Pairing:** Harry Potter/Romilda Vane

**Warnings:** Cruel rumors, minor angst, and mentioned sensuality.

* * *

Harry Potter bit his tongue to keep from yelling anything impolitic as wizards and witches stalked him through the corridors at Hogwarts. Now that the ex-Minister and several Aurors had seen Voldemort, everyone who had spent the past year slandering him wanted to slither into his good graces.

"Like groveling Death Eaters," he muttered. A quick glance assured him that no one had been close enough to hear his comment; still, that didn't stop him from wincing. He had to be doubly cautious about everything he said from now on. Being Lords Potter and Black meant twice the scrutiny and nitpicking from people who didn't know him in the least. And that was on top of being the Boy Who Lived.

His grip on his book bag tightened as he dodged a group of gaping first-years and entered the library. The Gryffindors were just as bad as the other houses and wouldn't let him study in peace; the common room was constant mayhem, even without Fred and George Weasley being students.

However, only someone with a death wish would bother him in the library. Madam Pince was worse than Filch and Snape combined; even Dumbledore trod lightly in her territory.

"Peace and quiet at last," he whispered as he bypassed a table of Ravenclaws.

Harry turned at the end of the section with books on Divination—no one would think to look for him there—and paused when he saw a brunette in Gryffindor robes seated amidst a pile of books. When had Hermione started using that hair-smoothing potion again?

He walked over to the table behind hers, set his bag on it, and then pulled out a chair and sat down. "Do me a favor, yeah? If anyone asks, I'm not here." The chestnut hair swayed in response to Hermione's nod. Harry blinked for a moment as he noticed its length; he hadn't known frizzy hair was so significantly shorter than smooth hair. It was at least twice as long as normal, reaching all the way down to her bum.

Shrugging, he shifted around and removed his Defense book from his bag. Snape's latest assignment was ridiculously long, and he wasn't all that enthused about it. Besides, it wasn't like Snape would mark his essay fairly anyway . . . so why should he even bother completing the assignment? McGonagall's stern face and Hermione's rants appeared in his mind. Right then—he remembered now.

Harry stabbed his quill into his inkwell, withdrew it, and then began writing. His lips twitched, and he chuckled softly to himself as he recalled how his handwriting used to resemble a chicken that had stepped in ink and meandered atop the parchment. He hadn't minded it—despite Snape's disparagement—until he received the Marauder's Map from Fred and George. Prongs had brilliant handwriting; once he knew Prongs was his father, he spent hours dedicated to practicing his penmanship. Now he could mimic his father's handwriting perfectly, which made him feel a little bit closer to someone he couldn't really remember but loved deeply.

Pausing only to periodically stretch his arms and roll his shoulders, Harry kept working on the essay. He was just finishing the five feet of parchment when quiet footsteps reached his ears. He put a full stop at the end of his sentence, closed his inkwell, and glanced up to see three blushing Hufflepuffs, one Ravenclaw, and two Gryffindors.

They were all witches and, if he remembered correctly, in their third and fourth years. Harry sighed and closed his eyes. This was the second time they had cornered him this week, but he couldn't leave the Map out in plain sight—not unless he wanted someone to confiscate it.

"Harry, I was wondering if—"

"Um, Harry, would you—?"

"It's a Hogsmeade weekend tomorrow and—"

"Harry! I love—"

Their voices grew continuously louder as they fought and attempted to gain his attention by interrupting and speaking over each other.

A loud thump sounded behind him, and he glanced over his shoulder to see two small hands pressed against opposite sides of a very thick tome. The spine was tilted mostly away from him, but he could just make out the words _Moste_ _Pure of Blood_.

"Lord Potter isn't here," a low, melodious voice stated.

As the witches gaped, mouths moving soundlessly, Harry realized that the slender witch in Gryffindor robes wasn't Hermione after all. He blushed at the blunder. Now that he was less harried and no longer dreading the essay, he could see that she was shorter, thinner, and her hands ended in elegantly manicured fingernails—not bitten off nails covered in ink stains.

"I can see him," the Ravenclaw who had been silent until this point stated factually.

The brunette lifted her chin and managed to look down her nose at the girl while still sitting. "I'm quite sure I don't know what you're talking about." Her tone of voice put Lucius Malfoy to shame.

The two Gryffindor girls with the group spluttered and flushed. "We're not stupid, Romilda." They spat her name. "Harry's sitting behind you."

Harry didn't think they were twins, but they spoke as if they shared the same brain; it was creepy. When Fred and George acted or spoke in unison, it felt right—natural. These girls seemed like robots or something, and it aggravated him. Then again, Fred and George didn't tend to stalk him, so he might be biased. He supposed he owed them a miniscule amount of gratitude for informing him of his champion's identity, though.

What little Harry knew of Romilda Vane was contradictory. Most of the things he had heard indicated that she was more brainless than Lavender Brown and freer with her body than a Muggle prostitute. Now that he knew her name, one glance was all he needed to discount those 'facts'.

She was obviously a pureblood; he recognized her last name. The Vanes had always been one of the more powerful Light families in Europe. In addition, she had honored his request when he hadn't even known he was speaking to her, so she clearly took pureblood hierarchy and tradition to heart. She wasn't the type of witch who would sully herself, her honor, or her family by allowing anyone to compromise her purity.

"I've already said Lord Potter isn't here. Do not make me repeat myself again," Romilda said. She placed the book she had been perusing on top of the nearest stack.

The Hufflepuffs backed away and left as the blonde Gryffindor snapped, "Stop lying, Romilda! I'm so sick of your attitude!"

The Ravenclaw's eyes narrowed calculatingly. "We all know you're not as perfect as you pretend to be," she hissed. Her features twisted, doing a fair impression of Umbridge.

Harry set his quill down next to his inkwell and fingered his wand. He didn't want to intrude if he wasn't needed, because it would imply that he didn't think Romilda could handle herself. However, he wouldn't let their viciousness pass a certain point. It was clear the three Muggle-borns had a pack mentality . . . and come to think of it, he had never heard a single pureblood repeat one of the rumors about Romilda.

"I've no need for such a pretense, I assure you," said Romilda as she packed her bag. She ignored the girls as if they were less than the dust beneath her shoes.

"Stop playing innocent!" the red-haired Gryffindor shouted. "We know that you shagged Roger Davies after the veela left at the end of the Yule Ball! Marietta saw you sneak into the head boy chambers right before curfew."

Her words echoed through the room, and the library was unnaturally still for the five seconds it took Harry to shoot to his feet. The chair he had occupied crashed to the floor, and his hand ached from clutching his wand too tightly. As the blood drained from Romilda's face, Harry bit his tongue to dam the tidal wave of insults that sought to escape. Sinking to their level wouldn't help the situation.

"That is enough." Harry had learned from Sirius's death, and now his rage was still and soft-spoken. He did some quick mental calculations using the minimal information he had of her family and barely repressed a wince when he reached the probable solution. "Roger Davies is one of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Vane's vassals. He sat vigil with Lady Vane on the anniversary of her mother's death. Your cruel insinuations are something I wouldn't even expect from the mouth of a Death Eater."

The three witches paled and swayed, gazes locked on Harry. His jaw clenched, and they flinched simultaneously.

"As witness to this travesty of justice, I declare you in Lady Vane's debt. Failure to repair any damage you've caused her and her reputation will result in your expulsion."

"You can't . . ." The Ravenclaw looked like she was torn between vomiting and fainting.

"I assure you, he can," Romilda whispered. Her shoulders were squared, as if for battle, which pushed her chest forward. Harry couldn't help but notice that it was well-formed, as was the rest of her. "Lord Potter has already invoked the debt of honor and Hogwarts immediately registers such things. Lord Gryffindor couldn't abide people without honor."

The Ravenclaw succumbed to her nerves and crumpled to the floor. Her collapse revealed Madam Pince, who stood with her arms crossed over her chest; her eyes were daggers of ice that penetrated the three interlopers and froze them solid. "This is a place of learning, not malicious gossiping and false accusations," she said. "Remove yourselves at once." She pointed at the girl on the floor and said, "And take _that_ with you."

They scurried to obey her, tears dripping down their faces as they struggled to drag their friend from the room without magic. Harry didn't feel an ounce of pity for them; they brought to mind all the times Dudley and his gang had assaulted Harry when they were younger.

Romilda's hands trembled as she packed her bag. It didn't take a genius to guess why; everyone in the library would've heard of her voluntary despoilment. He mentally scoffed at the mere thought of such a thing. Harry would bet his entire fortune that she was a virgin. Still, she couldn't stay back here and hide. She couldn't let them make her a victim.

He haphazardly shoved the few items on the table into his bag and closed it. "Lady Vane, may I carry your bag?"

Her hazel eyes cut to him. "Why?"

Harry wasn't thick enough to think she was talking about the bag. "They attacked you because you were doing me a favor. I'm ashamed my presence brought such bitterness and cruelty." The witches had seemed mostly harmless before, and he couldn't have been more wrong. Besides, she hadn't owed him anything; they weren't classmates or best friends, and she fulfilled his request anyway.

Romilda extended her bag and Harry looped it over his shoulder to rest beside his own. She stared at his face when he offered her his arm, but eventually seemed to find what she sought. Romilda stepped forward and placed her arm atop his, showcasing its slenderness when compared to his own muscled arm. The tips of her fingernails barely met his wrist.

"Where would you like to go, my Lady?" asked Harry.

"Lunch will be acceptable, Lord Potter," Romilda said.

Harry grinned at the blatant hint. "I'm afraid the Hogsmeade weekend doesn't start until tomorrow. Will dinner in the Great Hall be tolerable for tonight? I'll strive to make lunch tomorrow memorable."

They stepped out of the aisle and into the main part of the library. Students all over the room craned their necks and spoke in hushed tones as they observed Harry and Romilda.

"And please call me Harry." It was the least he could do after all she had suffered on his account.

Her arm tensed, but she didn't miss a step as they kept walking toward the exit. She glanced up at him from the corner of her eye; her stare was intense, as if she believed she could see inside his head and view his intentions first hand. A smile finally curved her lips. "That will be tolerable, Lord Harry. And despite the imprudence of the timing"—she paused to indicate their large audience and the events of the past half-hour—"I give you leave to address me by my given name."

Soft voices carried from the nearest table. "What is this, a play?"

"Nobody cares about stuff like that anymore."

"What? Were we transported to the past? People don't really talk like that."

Harry rolled his eyes. He was starting to understand why Muggle-borns got on the purebloods' nerves so often. He and Romilda were being mocked for politeness and possessing an actual vocabulary. Ridiculous! Who criticized people for not being tasteless twats?

Once they left the library, he breathed a sigh of relief. At least the other students hadn't been talking about Romilda's supposed tryst with Davies. His dislike for Marietta Edgecombe rose to a fever pitch. He couldn't imagine a scenario where she would feel the need to spread such vile filth about; and whatever messed up reason she might have, it couldn't possibly be justified. Romilda had only been thirteen at the time, after all.

The people in the corridors stopped and stared as they walked past. It was annoying, but Harry had grown used to the excessive amount of attention, no matter how much he might loathe it. Romilda didn't wilt beneath the intense scrutiny, which only increased his opinion of her. The Sorting Hat had definitely placed her in the proper house; she had courage aplenty.

They reached the Great Hall at the same time as Malfoy, who performed a double take upon spotting them. He nodded brusquely before brushing past them. Harry spared him a brief amused glance; he would let the prat speculate to his heart's content.

"Potter acting like a pureblood? The world must be ending!" Romilda whispered teasingly.

Harry laughed. "His next thought was probably, 'How did he manage to get such a beautiful witch as his dinner companion? Stupid Scarhead!'"

She didn't blush, but she did smile up at him. "Pretty compliments won't get you anywhere, Lord Harry."

"The compliments aren't pretty. You are," he retorted.

Romilda arched an eyebrow. "Only 'pretty'?"

He led her toward the Gryffindor table, glancing toward it only long enough to ensure they wouldn't collide with anyone. "The true adjective that comes to mind is more commonly a verb. And given the debacle in the library . . ."

"If you whisper it, I daresay no one else will hear it. Thus the problem is solved." Luckily, the majority of the students hadn't arrived yet, so they didn't have any trouble claiming choice seats.

After depositing their bags on the floor, Harry leaned over until his lips almost touched her ear and said, "You look ravishing, Lady Romilda." She really did. He had a pressing urge to feather his hands through her hair and entwine it about his fingers so they couldn't escape each other. He snickered at the fanciful thought.

There was something compelling about her silent strength. It drew his attention more sharply than the Snitch in a Quidditch match. She didn't try to stand out or be anything other than what she was: a Light pureblood witch.

She smiled at him, and it was stunning. "And you look handsome tonight, Lord Harry."

He lifted her hand and kissed it gallantly, shocking Neville Longbottom, who had just sat down across from them. "Ravishing Romilda and Handsome Harry. We make quite a pair."

Romilda's face blanked at the comment, and her eyes delved into his own. A few moments later she said, "You really mean that."

"Of course I do," he replied. He had meant it jokingly, amused by the alliteration, but the thought of being paired with her wasn't unpleasant. She intrigued him, and little other than Voldemort's return had aroused his interest in over a year.

"I had no idea that . . ."

A wall seemed to topple behind her eyes, and the burning emotions housed there made it feel as if a Bludger had just pummeled him. Many witches had professed their love for him, but he had never seen proof of it; he could see love in Romilda's eyes. She had never spoken of it, and he wondered if she ever would have if the events earlier in the afternoon hadn't occurred, or whether she would have gathered her courage and committed some brave and desperate act to get his attention.

The love in her eyes was pained, tortured, and unrequited as of now. Harry hated causing others agony. "I'm sorry, my Lady. I didn't know." The words were sincere.

"There was no way for you to know," she answered truthfully.

He squeezed her hand gently. "I'd like to prove myself worthy of that depth of emotion and see how my admiration for you develops over time." No, he didn't love her now. How could he when he barely knew her? But he knew enough to guarantee that he wanted to learn more about her. Her physical beauty was present for the whole world to see; if her inner beauty was equal to it, he couldn't imagine himself not returning her love someday.

Romilda peeked down at their joined hands and then grinned at him. "I find that solution tolerable, Lord Harry."

She didn't voice the words he knew were etched into her soul, and Harry was grateful for that. He didn't want to hear them until he was able to wholeheartedly repeat them back to her.


	5. Evaluating Ever After

**Title:** Evaluating Ever After

**Pairing:** Harry Potter/Narcissa Black, past Lucius Malfoy/Narcissa Black and Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley

**Warnings:** Character deaths—not main characters, angst, and age difference (17/42).

* * *

Narcissa Malfoy stared down at her son's lifeless body. His skin was paler than his hair, and his face was twisted in a gruesome mask of agony. The circles beneath his blank gray eyes were as dark as the Death Eater robes that encased him.

"Draco," she whispered.

Disbelief gnawed at her, attempting to refute the truth. But even if she couldn't see his still form with her own eyes, she would've known he was truly beyond her reach. Each child had a magical link to their mother from the moment they were conceived, and she had felt her only maternal link shatter the moment that Harry Potter defeated the Dark Lord.

Her husband Lucius lay somewhere behind her. His dying scream as he clutched his left arm echoed continuously through her mind. She wished he were still screaming, that his vocal cords would shred under the torture. Instead, the bastard had escaped into death and dragged her only happiness, her son, with him.

Narcissa's manicured nails dug into her palms, biting into the skin. It was the only display of grief that she, a pureblood lady, would allow herself in such a public setting. Childhood training was all that kept her from turning around and cursing her husband's corpse to pieces.

"I told you," she hissed. She had tried to sway Lucius from the Dark Lord when the pompous half-blood first sought power, but Lucius hadn't listened. He never had. She had tried once again to sway him when the Dark Lord returned, and again he had ignored her. The bastard had never sought counsel from anyone but himself, or the Dark Lord.

She had lost count of how many times he had said, "You'll never understand, Narcissa. These matters are too complex for the female mind. Why don't you organize a party?"

Narcissa had never hated her parents more than the moment they signed the betrothal contract with the conceited Malfoy Heir. She hadn't been able to stand him; they hadn't considered her opinion in the matter. As the youngest—and prettiest—daughter, she was nothing more than chattel. She was merely a bargaining tool for more power.

Her eyes stung, but she didn't cry a single tear. Narcissa hadn't cried since the day Sirius Black was lucky enough to escape their family and hadn't taken her with him. He had always been her favorite cousin, and he had left her in that hell. She had never forgiven him. As her male relative, he could have taken her, offering his protection and sanctuary. He hadn't.

Blood dripped from her elegant hands to the floor, landing beside her son's broken body. She dully registered the pain in her palms, but discarded the information as worthless.

Life as a pureblood witch wasn't as beautiful as many believed; it wasn't just parties, courting, gifts, and true love. Maybe the Light witches got such things, but the Dark families treated their daughters as prized possessions.

Andromeda had found a way out . . . but Narcissa had never gathered enough courage to follow her older sister's example. The thought of sullying her purity had been unconscionable. A bitter huff of breath escaped her as she remembered the path she hadn't taken.

"At least she had a choice," Narcissa said.

Lucius had never been overtly cruel in the marriage bed, but he hadn't been particularly kind to her either. The need for an heir was the only reason she could force herself to participate. Once Draco had been conceived, though, once life was growing inside her—someone who would love her most—the discomfort had been worth it.

And now, after two decades of marriage to a pureblood Lord who acted little better than a thoughtless monster, she had nothing to show for her time. Her husband was, thankfully, dead. Her beloved son lay lifeless at her feet. Her own reputation had been shredded to pieces by actions her relatives had committed.

A pureblood bonding might be glorious to those in love, but it was vicious to those who weren't. Narcissa had no recourse but to honor and obey her husband, even as he destroyed everything that mattered to her.

When she was still young, Narcissa had entertained ideas of a loving marriage to a good wizard. He would listen to her opinion, take her dancing, kiss her passionately, and never want to leave her side. Yet, her own bonding had been the stuff of bedtime stories meant to scare children. She could imagine mothers all across the country saying, "Once upon a time, there was a pretty witch who was full of herself and thought she deserved better than everyone else."

The furor in the Great Hall, which she had been able to tune out before, erupted even louder than before. Narcissa turned around numbly, eyes leaving her son to trail across her husband. His left arm was bent, the sleeve having slipped back to reveal his Dark Mark; it was Killing Curse green, just like Draco's.

Her gaze danced around the room and alighted on various Death Eaters. Each fool lay crumpled on the stone floor, robes splayed like a puddle of shadows. She spared a single grateful thought to Lucius for deciding that pureblood ladies shouldn't have a tattoo of any kind. His high-handed decision was all that had saved her from certain death. And while death would've surely been easier, she had never been afforded the opportunity to take the easy path. So why should she now?

Raucous cheers echoed off the walls, and she turned to face the source of the noise. Harry Potter stood within a circle of wizards and witches, each grinning broadly and reaching forward to thump him on the back.

Harry wasn't standing there accepting their accolades, though. He kept shifting around, neck craned, as if he were desperately searching for someone. A moment later, Harry's eyes met Narcissa's.

She waited for hatred to swell within her as he gently pushed people aside and wended his way through the crowd. She anticipated the sheer rage that would consume her and inspire her to filch a fallen witch's wand so she could slaughter him. It never came.

Little Harry Potter hadn't even been born when the Dark Lord rose to power. He hadn't been conceived yet when Lucius Malfoy allowed the half-blood to brand him. And he certainly hadn't forced her Draco to take the Dark Mark.

Even in the deepest chasms of her grief at the loss of her son, Narcissa was well aware that if Draco rested on one half of a scale and the entirety of wizarding Britain on the other, her baby would float into the air as countless others tipped the balance.

Narcissa waited for Harry to reach her; she wasn't sure what he wanted, but she knew she would find out soon enough.

When Harry was less than ten feet away, the youngest Weasley leapt forward and wrapped herself around him. She blubbered loudly and clung to him in a most unseemly display. Narcissa couldn't keep her nose from wrinkling with distaste. Real pureblood witches didn't cry in public; even the Light witches should know that much.

Her lips curved in the barest hint of amusement as Harry untangled himself and patted the redhead like an errant Crup.

When he stepped away from the bewildered girl and continued toward her, Narcissa relaxed her hands. Blood kissed down her palms and fingers to drip off the tips of her fingernails. She stared at it in fascination. Narcissa wished she could heal her hands, but she had no idea where her wand was; she had given it to Draco and . . .

The tip of a wand entered her line of sight. Harry's deep voice said, "_Episkey_." The wounds on her hands healed. Narcissa expected him to follow that spell with a cleaning charm, which shouldn't be used on human skin. Instead, he surprised her by producing a clean handkerchief. "_Aguamenti_," he said. A stream of water soaked the handkerchief, and he used it to carefully wipe the blood off her hands.

She tore her gaze away from his tan hand encasing hers to find he was staring past her at Draco's body. "He wasn't supposed to die," Harry said. It was a statement of fact, nothing less.

"There was nothing you could do," Narcissa replied. Even if she had known lying to the Dark Lord about Harry's death would result in her son's demise, she still would've done it. As much as she loved her son, she was aware of his faults. He had chosen the path he would walk, and magic had deemed him old enough to suffer the consequences.

A few people moved closer to them, conspicuously eavesdropping. Their lack of subtlety was pathetic.

Narcissa withdrew her hands from his hold and folded them before her. She was stunned for a moment when he stopped slouching and stood straight; he was several inches taller than her and barely resembled the child she had first seen in the _Daily Prophet_ years ago.

She inclined her head toward the youngest Weasley—whose name she had never bothered to learn—and said, "Your happily ever after awaits." Her fair hair tumbled over her shoulder at the movement, embarrassing her. Without her wand, she had no way to rectify the breach of protocol.

Harry swished and flicked his wand, murmuring too softly for her to make out the words. Narcissa stared at him in shock as she felt her hair twist itself up in elegant braids. Two combs slid into her fair locks, holding a short black veil in place; it covered her eyes but didn't hamper her vision. She couldn't imagine where Harry Potter had learned about pureblood grieving traditions. Then again, maybe it was something he had researched after Sirius's death?

Lowering his wand and ignoring the whispers that spread behind him, Harry said, "There's no such thing as happily ever after."

The maturity in that statement impressed Narcissa, because she knew it was true. She also knew most people his age didn't believe that. They still thought that people got married and had families and everything was fine. Even with the war, now that Voldemort was dead the majority of them would assume the threat was nonexistent. They wouldn't consider the possibility of future Dark Lords, of fights in marriage, of loveless marriages, of children dying.

"No, there isn't," she agreed. Another wave of whispers appeared at her comment. If she had been a teenager, she might've lowered herself to rolling her eyes.

Something in Harry's eyes called to her—some unnamable emotion and depth. Perhaps death had awakened Harry's memories from past lives, because the shimmering green spoke of an old soul who had seen and suffered far too much.

"Harry?" the girl Weasley said as she approached them, one hand pressed to her flat chest.

Harry glanced over and offered her a smile that Narcissa had seen on an innumerable amount of faces in her life; it was patronizing—the type of smile an embittered adult gave to a toddler who begged for attention. The type of smile her parents had always given her, informing her that they were deigning to give her their notice, but not for long, because there were more important matters to attend to.

Narcissa had made sure to never smile like that at Draco; she had never even felt the urge to. And despite its presence on his face, she knew Harry would never look at his own children like that, just as he would never treat his wife like Lucius had treated her.

"Yes, Ginny?" asked Harry.

Ah, so that was her name; it was a horrible appellation. Ginny's brown eyes darted from Harry to Narcissa and back again. "What are you doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing?"

"I thought I just saw you style Malfoy's mum's hair, but that makes no sense," she muttered.

"I assure you, Miss Weasley, that Lord Black's assistance in this matter is not unappreciated," Narcissa said. Though she had never acknowledged it before, she did now. Sirius had no issue of his own, and he never would've left the title to Draco.

"But I don't . . ."

"Lady Narcissa is my responsibility," Harry said.

"What do you mean?" asked Ginny.

The girl's mother had obviously done a shoddy job of raising her. How could she possibly be so ignorant? "My husband is dead, Miss Weasley," Narcissa stated tonelessly. "As a pureblood witch, all my husband's wealth becomes the property of my birth family and I revert to my maiden name."

"So Harry's a Lord?" Ginny squeaked out. She looked dazed, like someone had cast a Confundus Charm on her.

"Twice over," Harry replied. His attention returned to Narcissa, and he lightly grasped one of her hands and raised it to his lips. The moment the kiss met her bare skin she gasped, unable to withhold it. Magic hummed through her, echoing from a tie directly to her heart.

"The life debt," she whispered in realization. When Harry nodded, she suddenly understood what was happening and what he wanted.

As Lord of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, he was bound by magic to protect all members of his family. However, since he also owed her a life debt, that desire was being exponentially increased by their magic. That didn't even account for the bloodline of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Potter. It was said that liquid honor filled their veins, not blood.

Narcissa knew that she stood at a crossroads, probably the biggest decision of her life. This time around, she had a choice, and that made all the difference. Her magic tugged, urging her toward Harry. There was more than one way to fulfill a life debt, and her magic didn't seem to be the least bit interested in the regular solution.

Tingling warmth devoured her as her magic serenaded him. Narcissa had never reacted like this to a wizard in her life, and she had unfortunately met a great many wizards. She had never fantasized about a wizard, had never pondered possibilities, and had never felt this burning desire to belong to someone.

She had heard others rave about this wonderful, brilliant, indescribable feeling of rightness, but it had never happened to her—until now.

"What life debt?" Ginny screeched. The poor girl looked confused, enraged, and heart broken all at once, as if she had just woken to realize her wonderful reality was naught but a lovely dream.

Narcissa closed her eyes, felt her eyelashes flutter against her cheeks, let her magic guide her, and made her choice. Her eyes snapped open and shot to Draco; she vowed that she would never forget he was her firstborn.

After inhaling deeply to steady her nerves, Narcissa said, "Lord Black, in recompense for saving your life from the Dark Lord, I require a lifetime of commitment, fidelity, and respect."

"What?" Ginny yelled, looking as if she would be ill any moment.

A loud clamoring noise followed, swelling within the Great Hall of Hogwarts. Wizards and witches alike screamed questions, accused her of unspeakable crimes, and much more.

_Merlin forbid their savior should be forced into marriage with a Dark witch_, she thought snidely.

Harry grinned, which caused his lips to brush across her fingers again. He released her and stepped forward, hands lifting to cup her cheeks. "As you wish, Lady Black." And then he kissed her amidst the negative exclamations of his friends and allies, proving to her that even if they couldn't guarantee it was 'happily', they would definitely have an ever after


	6. To Vanquish Nightmares

**Title:** To Vanquish Nightmares

**Pairing:** Harry Potter/Daphne Greengrass

**Warnings:** Somewhat disturbing things, and mention of past character deaths.

* * *

Harry Potter glared at Severus Snape as the man declared they would be facing boggarts in their first class as a "test". Harry knew the spiteful jerk just wanted to see what would terrify Harry the most; he was probably hoping for front row seats to see Sirius fall through the cursed veil.

"Those unable to adequately overcome this minor annoyance will not be allowed into my Defense class this year. I put up with you dunderheads in Potions because I had no choice; now that you're sixth-years, I can ban you for incompetence."

Gritting his teeth, Harry fisted his hand atop his left thigh. He knew Dumbledore wouldn't let Snape kick him out of the class, because he needed training for the war. However, he could honestly say he would rather have Lockhart back as a teacher than deal with Snape's ridicule. The git was more likely to hinder him than help, as he had proven just a few months ago.

"Don't worry, Harry. You'll be fine," Hermione whispered from beside him.

"Five points from Gryffindor for talking," snapped Snape. He sneered at Harry, though he hadn't said a single word. Harry didn't object, though. That would be the quickest way to make Snape happy, and it was Harry's goal in life to make the bastard as miserable as possible.

As the new Lord Black, he wouldn't let Snape's negligence toward Sirius's demise go unpunished. Because of insipid pettiness on his professor's part, his godfather had died. That was unforgivable. Harry had officially declared a blood feud against Snape, though he doubted the man knew it; he was too self-absorbed to notice or understand such things.

Others weren't. Harry knew the feud had been officially noted in the Ministry books, and the distance several students kept from Snape this year—when they had previously not seemed to mind him—informed him that more than one pureblood was disgusted with the lack of honor and respect the man paid pureblood Lords.

He had only gotten away with belittling Harry over the years because Harry hadn't yet been sixteen; he had only been an heir at the time. Some could see such demeaning circumstances as character building. However, blatantly attacking a pureblood Lord reduced Snape to less than a Muggle in the eyes of many.

Harry had observed more than one Slytherin avoiding Snape whenever possible, and Snape probably thought it was about some Voldemort related issue. Fool. Pureblood pride and honor came before everything—even a Dark Lord.

Even Malfoy had curled his lips in distaste at his previously favorite professor.

"Potter."

Leaning back in his seat, Harry folded his arms across his chest and stared at Snape without saying a word. He didn't have to respond to that. Honestly, with the blood feud he didn't have to speak to Snape at all.

"Potter, are you ignoring me? Is the illustrious Boy Who Lived too good for Defense lessons?" Snape goaded him.

"Oi! Harry can fight Voldemort and live. A boggart is no problem for him, you—"

"Silence, Weasley! I wasn't talking to you, though it's no surprise you had to insert your nose in Potter's business like a Crup. Ten points from Gryffindor!"

Harry could hear Malfoy sniggering a few rows back as Ron flushed an unflattering shade of red. He reached over and patted Ron on the shoulder before staring at Snape blankly. "He's a loyal friend. But then, you wouldn't know anything about that, seeing as you have no friends and don't know the meaning of the word 'loyal' . . . _sir_."

Snape paled until he resembled the gargoyle that guarded the Headmaster's office in color, as well as visage. "Detention for a month, Potter," he spat.

Harry glanced down at his nails and rubbed them against his chest, pretending he hadn't heard a word. It didn't matter anyway; it's not like he would be attending them.

Just as Snape opened his mouth to spew another idiotic comment, bitterness lacing each word, Ron stood from his seat. "I'll face the boggart then. We're not afraid," he said, gesturing at the table Neville, Harry, Hermione, and Ron occupied before glancing at the Slytherins with a grin.

When more than one of the Slytherin boys puffed up their chests, Harry had to fight back a grin. They were so easy to rile; it was pathetic.

Ron approached the chest beside Snape's desk and kicked the lid open. For a moment there was a formless blob, and then the bodies of his family members lay on the ground, lifeless and broken. He gazed at them in horror for just a moment, but then clearly enunciated, "_Riddikulus!_" He snorted before walking back to the table. "Like Harry will ever let that happen." The entire Boggart-Weasley family was eating a Sunday family dinner behind him.

Instead of feeling pressured, or as if a weight had been dropped on him, Harry felt relieved. Ron's unwavering faith since their brief spat during fourth year had sustained him through pain and tragedy more than once. When it came down to it, he knew he wasn't alone.

Almost before he could blink, Hermione stood facing the boggart. It changed from raucous Weasleys into herself. She was sitting alone in a chair, tears streaming down her face, watching the other Gryffindors talk and play games without her. Everyone passed her by as if she didn't exist.

As she watched the unbearable loneliness on her face, Harry scoffed. "Like I'll ever let that happen."

The comment jolted her into motion, and she smiled over her shoulder at him before muttering, "_Riddikulus_." Boggart-Hermione was suddenly whispering into Harry's ear as he battled Ron at chess; the two of them were still losing.

Neville took her place, and the three of them stopped laughing and transformed into a cackling Bellatrix Lestrange. "Ickle Longbottom is cwying like his cwazy mummy and daddy. _Crucio!_"

He didn't flinch. His eyes narrowed viciously, hand clutching his wand, as he said, "Harry's going to let me kill you." It was true, too. While Harry had lost his godfather, Neville had lost his parents. The greater damage had been done to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Longbottom, so he had first dibs on a vow of revenge.

Everyone in the class but Harry and Neville jerked in shock when Neville shouted, "_Riddikulus!_" and the spell came out the color of the Killing Curse; it slammed into the Boggart-Bellatrix and she tumbled to the floor, her head making a loud smacking sound as it met stone.

As students backed away from Neville, Harry fought the urge to laugh. What did they think would happen? That Neville, now Lord Longbottom because his father was unable to hold the title, would change her into Snape in his grandmother's clothing? A lot could change in three years, and Neville had become a formidable wizard; there was no doubt about that.

The sound of Harry's chair scraping across the floor drew all attention to him. He stood up and twirled his wand confidently just to annoy Snape as he sauntered to the front of the room. Whispering spread across the room, and he would wager that half expected the usual dementor, and the rest figured that Voldemort would appear.

Harry leaned his hip against the front table, where Daphne Greengrass was sitting with Tracey Davis and Millicent Bulstrode. He yawned, as if bored, and then waited for Bellatrix's corpse—a most lovely sight—to change.

A skeletal, winged horse appeared before him; it was a thestral. This one looked exhausted and bonier than any other he had ever seen.

"Oh, come on! That's impossible!"

"I thought for sure it would be a dementor. . . ."

"But he knows the Patronus Charm now, doesn't he? So why should he be scared of them anymore?"

"How can he be afraid of nothing?" Malfoy shrieked.

"Because he's Harry Potter," someone said, as if that explained everything.

It suddenly dawned on Harry that the other students couldn't see the thestral. Then again, they likely hadn't been exposed to danger as often as he had. They still had their innocence; it hadn't been shattered as people were murdered before them. They were the lucky ones.

"I wish you were right," he muttered. If only he was scared of nothing, his life would be much easier.

Snape's face was a sneer of derision, but he didn't correct the students' false assumption that Harry was fearless. He briefly wondered why, but then dismissed the thought. Snape's thought processes would never make sense to him, so why bother?

A smooth hand suddenly wrapped around his. Harry blinked, shocked, and then turned to see Daphne had placed her hand over his on the desk. Her deep blue eyes held compassion and understanding, and Harry realized that she knew what it was like to helplessly watch someone else die.

Daphne understood, as no one else their age did—except Luna. And Luna had lost part of her mind when her mother died; she was slightly insane. Daphne, however, wasn't. Just like him, she had somehow managed to keep it together.

That was beyond impressive.

She lowered her eyes and withdrew her hand. Daphne mouthed an apology for touching him without permission, but he knew she hadn't meant it in a proprietary way; she had simply been offering him comfort—another pleasure not often extended to the great Harry Potter: Boy Who Lived.

In his genealogy studies, he had learned that her father had died shortly before Daphne started at Hogwarts, and though her mother was suspected, there was no proof to convict her. Wizengamot laws forbid pureblood heirs and heiresses from testifying in court when they were minors, and no magical person could be compelled to testify against a blood relative. So even if she had been an eyewitness to her mother killing her father, she would've never been able to do anything about it.

The thought alone was . . . twisted and sick.

Undeniably curious now about what her greatest fear would be, Harry pulled out Daphne's chair and offered his hand. Silence descended on the room as she accepted it and got to her feet with his assistance.

"What's he doing?" Goyle asked as Harry stepped to the side, guiding Daphne closer to the boggart.

"Greengrass accepted his hand?" Pansy Parkinson gasped, looking as shocked as he imagined she would if Malfoy actually declared his intention to marry her. Harry didn't know why she was so surprised. It was a mere courtesy to a Lady. He wasn't an uncultured heathen!

"Put a sock in it, Parkinson!" Parvati Patil hissed. "I think it's sweet."

"They're so—so—so—they look good together!" Lavender Brown squealed.

The thestral altered after a moment into a golden contract; it lay on the stone floor—the contrast between glittering gold and dull gray almost painful. Daphne inhaled deeply and swayed as if she would faint any moment. Harry took a quick step forward so she could lean her back against his chest, and then placed his hands gently on her waist to keep her steady.

Only Harry, Daphne, and Snape were in a position to read what the contract said. His eyes skimmed over the words and then jumped back to the beginning so he wouldn't miss a single clause.

Mind-numbing horror and disgust consumed Harry as he read it, unable to believe something so vile could possibly exist. Daphne trembled against him, and he unconsciously tightened his grip and rested his chin on the top of her head as he kept reading.

"Improper . . ."

"Embracing her in public like a common . . ."

"Who does he think he is?"

"What right does he have to touch her like that?"

The questions grew louder and more daring the longer Harry stayed wrapped around Daphne, but she didn't object or attempt to fight her way out of his embrace. In fact, she pressed her back into his chest as if she thought she could hide herself inside his body and forever escape the cursed contract.

When Harry reached the end of the contract, he bit his lip and gazed at the wall. That contract was evil, and her mother was on par with Voldemort, though he had never thought such a thing could be possible. But this—it was wrong. So wrong.

And he potentially had the power to stop it from happening.

Harry released his hold on Daphne and took a step back; he carefully cupped her shoulders and turned her around to face him. She looked positively ill, and her eyes were empty of hope.

"Is this real?" asked Harry.

She nodded wordlessly, her blonde hair swishing lifelessly behind her.

His grip on her shoulders tightened at the affirmative. "Has it been signed yet?"

Very slowly, she shook her head. That was all he needed to know. Voldemort had already ruined too many lives; he wouldn't let that monster have her. The thought that Voldemort wanted a sixteen-year-old as his consort was revolting. That her mother had offered her without a thought was unconscionable.

It wasn't even a betrothal or bonding contract. It stated, in fancy language, that her body would belong to Voldemort. Her mother was going to sell her like a common prostitute to the wizard who had murdered Harry's parents. That was just . . . he had no words to describe how _evil_ that was.

Determination stamped across his features, Harry reached forward and pulled Daphne's wand from her hand. Gasps sounded through the room, but Harry ignored them. By taking away her means of defense, he was claiming Daphne as being under his personal protection, and by default under the protection of everyone with Potter or Black blood in their veins.

Harry twirled his wand around and offered it to her handle first. That broke the silence.

"Harry, are you sure?" Hermione asked.

"Mate, don't you think that's a little hasty?" Ron hollered.

"Don't you dare, Potter! She's . . ."

"Oh! It's so romantic!" Lavender giggled to Parvati.

Daphne's fingertips traced along his wand, but didn't curl around it. Her nails kissed the holly and then stilled. She glanced up at him from beneath her lashes, still shuddering. But now there was a spark of hope in her eyes. "Are you sure?" she asked, echoing Hermione's question.

It was a legitimate question. Was he sure? Was he readying to pledge his magic, his wand, to someone—to her—Daphne Greengrass. Was he ready for marriage? A wife of his own? A family?

"I am." This was the right thing to do. He knew they could be happy together; they were both lonely and just wanted love. His wand grew hot in his hand, beating with magic alongside hers, as if they were living hearts in his hands.

Slowly, as if she expected him to change his mind at any second, Daphne tugged his wand free of his grasp. Once it resided in her hand, both wands lit up and sparkling white ribbons erupted from both, shooting out to encase both Harry and Daphne.

A loud furor exploded through the classroom, but they both ignored it and the yelling students as they clutched the wands tightly. When the ribbons slid inside them and joined with their cores, plaiting their magic together, Harry felt warmer and safer than he ever had in his entire life.

Grinning widely, he traced her wand down her cheek. After she mimicked the action, he bent down and captured her lips with his. It was obviously her first kiss, and she tasted clean and pure both on his lips and in his heart.

He reluctantly parted their lips and then rested his forehead against hers. Harry tangled his wand-free hand in her hair and whispered, "Hello, Lady Potter."

She flushed, glancing away briefly before returning her gaze to meet his. "Hello, Husband."

A shiver raced down his spine at her chosen address. The word resounded through him, singing along with his magic, filling him with a symphony of dreams for the future.

He hadn't planned on bonding so soon, and certainly not before Voldemort was vanquished, but this felt right. Dumbledore had said that love was the 'power the Dark Lord knows not'.

Staring into Daphne's emotion-filled eyes, Harry didn't doubt that they were starting a quest for love. He had never failed to complete a quest yet. Failure wasn't an option.

Harry feathered his hand through her hair, and then accepted his wand back as he returned hers. He slid their hands against each other until he could entwine their fingers. "Let's get out of here." He led her past the sputtering and gaping students, some of whom glared viciously at them, and to the door.

"Potter, class isn't over! If you walk out that door I'll—"

"Your petty threats hold no influence in my life. Neither does your opinion. My wife and I will do as we please," said Harry, before gifting Snape with a cutting glare and exiting the room.

Once they were alone in the corridor, Daphne stopped moving. The abrupt halt caught his attention and he turned to face her. Her lower lip quivered as she vowed, "I won't be the death of you."

Harry cradled her against his chest and kissed her silky hair. "I never imagined you would be, Daphne."

"I'm ashamed that my mother, the _perfect_ pureblood," she sneered, "acted so dishonorably. Especially when your mother stood with honor and courage in the face of certain death."

Harry's eyes burned and he swallowed roughly, tongue feeling thick in his mouth.

"I won't shame the title you've given me, Harry. I swear I won't bring dishonor to the name Lady Potter. I'll prove myself worthy of your kindness!" Her hands scrabbled at the front of his robes and she stared up at him beseechingly, as if she could make him feel her sincerity. She succeeded; it traveled down their bond and filled him. She meant every word.

Harry wanted to tell her that she didn't have to prove anything to him, but knew such a comment would offend her. Pureblood witches always felt the need to prove themselves; it was how they were raised. Each little girl was informed daily that she needed to be perfect, to follow the guidelines, to obey protocol, and so on. They had to eternally prove they were the right choice: beautiful, graceful, powerful, elegant, and so on.

There was only one way he felt he could make her see that she didn't have to try with him; he only wanted her to be herself.

Sliding a hand under her chin, Harry forced himself to speak the words that brought unimaginable pain to his heart and resurrected the worst of his nightmares. "Daphne, when we have children, would you be willing to die for them?"

She blushed at the word "children", and then paled when he mentioned their hypothetical offspring dying. "Without a moment's hesitation," whispered Daphne.

Harry closed his eyes and shoved away the memories of his mother's screams. "That's all the proof I need. That love makes you a true Lady Potter."

Tension melted away and she collapsed fully against him. "Are you sure?" she asked, as if she couldn't believe that was all he required.

His answer was honest and identical to the one he had given ten minutes ago. "I am." He shut his eyes and held her tightly, vowing with all his magic that two living, loving parents would raise the next generation of Potters.


	7. Cracking Control and Collars

**Title:** Cracking Control and Collars

**Pairing:** Harry Potter/Blaise Zabini

**Warnings:** Genderbend, possessiveness, violence, darkish!Harry, and sensuality.

* * *

"Remove your hand from my person, at once!"

Harry Potter felt rage cloud his mind as the adamant words reached his ears. He always secretly enjoyed listening to her voice; it was husky and lyrical, luring him closer with each succulent syllable.

However, these were words that should never leave her lips. Harry might not have declared his intentions yet, but that didn't mean anyone else had the right to touch the woman he had chosen as his future wife.

"Don't be like that, Blaise."

The familiarity of the address had Harry biting his tongue in an effort to keep the incantation of the Killing Curse from erupting past his lips. His fingers clutched his wand, which had leapt into his palm at the first word from the bastard's lips. It was Zacharias Smith; he would recognize that voice anywhere. Harry's dislike for the Hufflepuff transformed into hatred without a moment's delay.

It took precisely five steps forward for Harry to reach the corner. Each was as silent as the one before it. He turned to his left and swallowed the impulse to scream the Cruciatus Curse at Zacharias. The sleazy Hufflepuff blocked her from view, but he could just see Smith's pasty hand tightly grasping her shoulder.

"Let me go!" she hissed. The sound contained equal parts of anger and fear; it was the hint of fear that finally made Harry snap.

Harry thrust the tip of his holly wand into the base of Zacharias's skull. "Let the lady go." The words came out with a sibilant edge to them, treading the precipice of not-quite-Parseltongue.

Zacharias's hand clenched more tightly on Blaise's shoulder, and a soft moan of pain filled the air. "This has nothing to do with you, Potter. I have every right to be here."

The tip of Harry's wand began to glow as his magic growled beneath his skin. "Are you deaf, Smith? She said 'no'!"

"You don't know what you're talking about," Zacharias scoffed. "She's my fiancée, and I can—"

The mere thought of anyone else possessing Blaise Zabini sent a wave of black over Harry's mind, as if his conscience had been veiled. It was a lie. Such an engagement would have been announced in the _Daily Prophet_.

"I am not," she spat.

"I know what I'm talking about," Harry said through gritted teeth. The wall he had managed to erect in his mind to keep Voldemort out was fracturing. Incantations that Harry had never spoken danced through his head, each accompanied by graphic visuals of the damage that would appear as a result. "Do you know who you're dealing with, little Hufflepuff?"

"The bloody boy-who-lived. I'm so scared," Zacharias mocked.

"You should be," Harry purred throatily. "After all, I share a mind with Voldemort." Zacharias flinched at the name, and his magic trembled around him. "Did you know, little Hufflepuff, that the Sorting Hat wanted to put me in Slytherin?" Zacharias's hand shook on Blaise's shoulder. "It took me a while to convince it to put me in Gryffindor, but I succeeded." The hand slackened, but didn't leave her body.

"You w-wouldn't—"

"Wouldn't I?"

Blaise's husky voice whispered a familiar incantation, and a massive king cobra landed at their feet, its body weaving in the air as it observed them. Harry briefly wondered why she hadn't done that earlier, and then caught a glimpse of Zacharias's other hand; it was loosely holding the shaft of her wand. He must've had it pinned in place before Harry scared him.

"Thank you, my lady," Harry said, livid at the thought of what might've happened if he hadn't decided to take a walk shortly before dinner.

"The pleasure's mine," said Blaise.

Zacharias inhaled deeply and straightened his shoulders, reaffirming his grip on Blaise. "You wouldn't dare."

Harry snorted, lips stretched in a macabre grin. "Oh? And who would ever believe that the boy-who-lived set a venomous snake on a Hufflepuff?"

"I would," Blaise said.

The chuckle that Harry expelled was full of dark delight. "That's only because you're not fooled but what you see, my dear." When she didn't object to the borderline endearment, pleasure tingled along his nerves.

"Don't call my fiancée—"

"You're remarkably dim for a pureblood," Harry said conversationally, as his magic directed the cobra to entwine itself around Zacharias's legs. "I daresay even Malfoy would've been smart enough to let her go and back the bloody hell off by now."

Zacharias spluttered. "I'm nothing like that prat!"

"Do you have a death wish?" Blaise asked him deridingly.

"Don't speak to me like that!" he snarled.

The wall that kept Voldemort imprisoned cracked a little more. "Smith, if you don't release her immediately, I swear on my godfather's death that I'll order the cobra to remove your ability to continue your bloodline."

The blood drained from Zacharias's face, and he swayed at the threat. Everything Harry and Blaise had said must have finally sunk through his thick skull, because he leapt away from both of them, only to tumble to the floor as the cobra tripped him. "Get it off me, Potter! Get it off!" he shrieked like a little girl.

Smirking, Harry hissed, "_Come here, beautiful_." The cobra unwound itself and slithered over to Harry, its flared hood brushing against his thigh. He reached down and gently stroked its scales as Zacharias clambered to his feet and sprinted away from them.

Harry lifted the snake into the air and offered it to Blaise, cocking an eyebrow in challenge as he presented it to her. She leant forward and kissed its shiny, black scales. Harry fought the surge of jealousy and blinked dispassionately as she calmly banished it. His hands felt empty as they hovered in the air, relieved of their burden.

She straightened before him, hazel eyes narrow and introspective. They glimmered a deep shade of aureate in the torchlight. Her chestnut hair cascaded down to her hips in loose waves, perfectly complementing her mocha skin. She was fierce, exotic, and the only woman that had ever held his interest for more than a week. Blaise Zabini wasn't foolish enough to believe what she was told, or what she saw, as so many other witches were. She was intelligent enough to see and hear what others didn't. He admired her for that.

Zacharias's words sneaked into his mind again, and Harry tried to blot them out to no avail. Even though she had already denied it, he needed to hear it again. "Tell me he's not your fiancé," Harry demanded.

"He's not," she agreed, eyes narrowing to slits as she stared at him thoughtfully.

Blaise seemed to come to a decision, because she stepped forward until his hands, which were still hovering in the air, landed on her shoulders. "Erase his touch."

It was the sweetest and most agonizing command he had ever been given. _For the love of Merlin, do not lose control_, he thought desperately. This was her way of saying thank you, and he had never felt gratitude as dearly as now. Oh-so-gently, he cupped her shoulders, and then kissed his palms down her arms. Her school robes covered her skin, but it was still almost unbearably intimate.

It was also improper, but he didn't care one whit. She had given him permission, and that was all he needed to assuage his sense of honor.

"Why me?" asked Blaise, plump lips caressing the question.

Harry didn't pretend ignorance; he knew what she meant. "Because you're mine," he replied. His fingertips trailed down her slender fingers before releasing her entirely. His magic spiraled forward and teased alongside hers, taunting it into tangling and twisting. "Can't you feel it?"

"Yes," she murmured, cheeks heating as their magic masterfully mingled.

His heart was pounding so loudly in his ears that he was afraid it might explode. "Will you accept it?"

She withdrew her magic, sheltering it beneath her untouchable skin. Her gaze drifted downward and landed on her wand, which had so recently proven useless in protecting her.

Every second she remained silent resulted in melting mortar. Mumbled spells lurked behind the wall, seeping through ruptured gaps. Voldemort knew words that would make her choose Harry, love him, worship him, and obey his every whim.

He didn't want her like that, though; he wanted her warm and willing in his arms. He wanted what his father had earned—the love of the only witch who would ever matter.

"I will."

Triumph pounded through his veins, singing of celebration and primal victory. She had not only refused Zacharias, but she had accepted Harry. He was the victor. That made Blaise _his_.

Adrenaline made his hands shake as he slid the platinum ring off his smallest right finger. He spun it in his palm, magic stretching it until it regained its true form: an elegant, platinum collar bearing the Potter family crest.

Blaise traced the crest with a manicured nail, eyes wide with wonder. "I didn't think you were this serious," she breathed.

"I have never been more serious in my life." The collar didn't exactly have a name, but it served many purposes. It was a protection collar, a bloodline collar, and much more. Any man who sought to touch her as Zacharias had today would be severely injured by the magic in the collar. She would belong to the House of Potter and receive the ultimate protection it could offer her.

"Some witches would take this as an insult," Blaise said lowly. "They would assume you either thought they were too weak to protect themselves, or that you feared they would be unfaithful to you."

In olden times, such collars were mandatory in marriages; they ensured all children were legitimate and witches were faithful to their husbands. The law had been altered centuries ago, and now such precautions were optional.

"You're not 'some witch', Blaise," Harry said, cutting right to the heart of the matter and savoring the taste of her name on his tongue.

She glared at him, but mimicked the breach in protocol by saying, "No, I'm not, Harry."

He wanted nothing more than to bend down and devour his name from her lips. Now wasn't the right time, though. This conversation was much too important for him to get distracted. "Then you should know my real reasons for presenting this collar."

Blaise nodded and gathered her glorious hair in one hand; she pulled the chocolate fall of hair over one shoulder and turned around, presenting her back and bare neck to him.

Harry gasped at the implicit invitation and raised the collar high in exultation. "Because I treasure you," he confessed. "Because you're the only one for me. Because no one else deserves you. Because I still want to peel his flesh from his bones for placing his hand so near something only I and our children should ever touch." She arched her neck, and Harry nuzzled it lightly. "Because I trust you. Because I'll never betray you. Because this way"—he sealed the collar around her throat—"nothing can ever separate us."

His magic erupted like a volcano, shooting out to coat Blaise's body from head-to-toe; she glittered like light refracting off broken crystal. Then her magic solidified for a moment, and a gleaming aureate rope stretched from the collar to wrap around Harry's hand, binding her to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Potter—but, more importantly, to him.

A loud ruckus drew his attention, and Harry turned around just in time to see the Slytherins and Hufflepuffs turn the corner and come to a standstill. Mouths flapped soundlessly as the students stared at him and Blaise.

"What in Merlin's name have you done, Zabini?"

"Harry Potter, you didn't!"

Zacharias Smith was red in the face, and he took a threatening step forward, likely buoyed by the many witnesses now present. "What did you do, you bastard? She's min—"

"Mine!" Harry snarled as he wrapped an arm around Blaise's waist and guided her to his side.

"You forced her into this!" Zacharias yelled, one finger pointed straight at Harry. "You filthy, little—"

Ernie McMillan stepped forward and slapped a hand over Zacharias's mouth. When Zacharias pulled away, Justin Finch-Fletchley's took its place.

"Shut up, Smith," Susan Bones said. "She's wearing Harry's collar, and a witch has to be completely willing for it to seal in place; he couldn't have threatened her into it, not that Harry would. Jealousy isn't a becoming trait."

Parkinson's nose was wrinkled in disgust as she said, "Even I have to agree that Potter is a better choice than Smith. But really, Zabini, did you have to pick a—"

"It's Potter, not Zabini," Blaise said imperiously. "And like Bones said, jealousy isn't a becoming trait, Pansy."

"What?" Parkinson screeched.

"Everyone knows Malfoy isn't half the wizard Harry is," Blaise said smugly as she leaned against Harry. "Face the truth! We both know Malfoy would never offer his wife a collar, because then he would have to be faithful. I'll let you in on a little secret, Pansy, dearest," she sneered. "I'm the first in over five decades who's been found worthy enough for this distinction." She caressed the collar, taunting the audience before them.

Harry groaned softly at the sight and discreetly fisted a hand in her hair. The smirk on her face heated his blood and serenaded him. She wasn't like the weak pureblood women who never stood up for themselves and accepted their lot in life; she was a spitfire, overflowing with passion and life. He hungered for her alone. Blaise had unknowingly—or perhaps, knowingly—captivated him from afar. She had seduced his heart away, until every beat whispered her name in a silent susurration of magic.

Harry had long since understood why his father had refused to cease pursing his mother. Once a Potter male met the right witch, no other could ever hope to compare in a favorable manner.

As several of the students tittered and chuckled at the slew of insults, Malfoy lifted his arm and brandished his wand at Blaise. Reason skittered away as Harry calculated the threat and brought the full force of his magic to bear down on Malfoy's pitiful aura. "Are you sure that's what you want to do, Malfoy?" He spoke the words exactly as Voldemort had spoken them at the last Death Eater meeting, a sibilant threat.

Malfoy paled and mindlessly said, "No, my lord." He lowered his wand.

The Slytherins and Hufflepuffs both looked confused at the title, but it pleased Harry. Let them assume that Malfoy was showing respect to the Lord of an Ancient House; Malfoy was, after all, only an heir to one. They alone would understand the very real threat that lived in Harry's head, always looking for a path to freedom.

Blaise turned her head toward him, which tugged his fingers and returned Harry to the present situation. He had never seen anything more stunning than Blaise, and she was something he would share with no one but his future children.

_Mine_, he hissed toward the cracking wall in his head. _All mine_. Harry concentrated, sealing the imperfections in the mental prison more tightly than he ever had before. He wouldn't allow Voldemort to leak out and poison their magic, taint their bond, and join it.

Once it was impenetrable, he blinked.

"I tire of our audience. I want you to myself," Harry whispered in her ear.

Blaise acquiesced, though her magic translated her nervousness to him. "As you wish," she murmured in response. Her magic shrunk with fear for a moment, and then calmed quickly, as if hiding her true emotions.

Harry led her down the hallway, away from the chattering students. His magic hung behind them in the air, shielding them from anyone idiotic enough to launch an attack. Once they turned the next corner, he stopped and tilted her head up with a finger under her chin.

"I'll wait until you're ready, Blaise. I would never coerce you in this matter. I only meant that I want to hold you in my arms tonight," he explained. He breathed a sigh of relief when her magic relaxed, as if he had soothed its feathers. "You will always have the right to refuse me," he assured her. "I vow I will never abuse my rights when it comes to you."

Instead of thanking him verbally, Blaise tangled her fingers with his and placed them on the collar. "Until I'm ready, remember to touch this whenever you need reassurance that I'm yours." Her cheeks burned with embarrassment at the topic, but she didn't shy away from the need for such an important conversation. "And even after you claim me," she uttered, eyes locked with his, "touch the collar to remind yourself I willingly became yours."

Harry curled their joined hands around the collar, fingers brushing along cool metal and petal-soft skin. Every cell of his body bespoke its need as his solemn vow was given birth. "I will."


	8. Sleep, Suffering, and Susan

**Title:** Sleep, Suffering, and Susan

**Pairings:** Harry Potter/Susan Bones

**Warnings:** canon character deaths, some angst, and some sensuality.

* * *

"The war is over."

Harry Potter breathed the words into the chilly air as if those four words spoken in that moment made it true. They possessed a solemnity, a finality, as if he hadn't vanquished Voldemort almost five months ago. A cloud of air accompanied them, lifting the truth into the afternoon sky and setting it free.

As soon as the breath of fog dissipated, he had an irrational urge to reach out and fist the words. What if voicing them made them false?

Harry dragged his hand down his face, hiding from the world. He was exhausted, and sleep was nothing more than a daydream. Oddly enough, nightmares weren't what kept him awake for an unhealthy amount of time; if it was something that simple, he would've taken a Dreamless Sleep Potion and crashed for however long he could manage. The empty seats at the house tables didn't keep his eyes open, remembering past classmates. Ginny's relationship with Michael Corner didn't steal his rest either.

_She_ kept him awake.

"You tear my heart to pieces," said Harry, another cloud of breath carrying his words off. He shoved his hands in his pockets and stared mindlessly at the tossing waves of the Black Lake. The sight reminded him of easier times, back when Voldemort was a deformed thing, back when Cedric Diggory was alive, and Harry's greatest worry was avoiding Snape.

Harry crouched down, and then sat on the massive rock behind him. His trousers became damp, and he gave a fleeting thought to the robes he had left in his dorm room that morning. The cold, hard surface of the boulder supported him and kept him steady as his thoughts raged.

Before the war, Harry had hardly ever noticed her; he had very rarely spoken to her. Then again, he had barely any contact with students from the other houses until fifth year, preferring to keep close to Ron and Hermione. Even when his circle of influence grew, he didn't really reach out to anyone. It was only now that he consciously understood why. Harry was afraid of losing anyone important to him, and Ron and Hermione were his best friends; he couldn't risk that by befriending anyone—not when he was young and insecure.

"Poor me," he muttered sarcastically.

Maturity leant itself to open-mindedness in his case, and Harry was just starting to see how closed-off and self-centered he had been. In protecting himself from potential rejection and harm, he had managed to reject many others.

_She_, however, despite the loss of so many relatives in the first war, had always had a smile on her face, and a kind word for everyone. That was before the second war, before Voldemort murdered her aunt, and before the Death Eaters systematically eliminated everyone else closely related to her.

"I lost Sirius and Remus, who I barely knew, and I fell apart." He closed his eyes in remembrance. "She lost her aunt and her parents, and she's still . . ." Harry gulped, wishing he could say that she was all right. It wouldn't be the truth, though. She still came to school, still worked unbelievably hard, and still helped others, but her smile was broken now; it never reached her eyes. Her eyes didn't sparkle, her cheeks didn't dimple, and her laugh was never more than a rasping whisper.

"I want to fix you, Susan Bones."

It was a foolish desire, because she wasn't a defective toy that he could just mend. Even if he used the Resurrection Stone, the shades he returned to her wouldn't be her lost loved ones; such an effort would be useless, causing more harm than good.

The splintered smile and lusterless laugh cut at him, grating along his magic. Each time he saw her or heard her speak, he felt an overwhelming urge to use the Elder Wand, as if it were a panacea, to make everything better. The childish wish, and his magic's push to help, only served to frustrate him. He had never been good at talking to strangers, and the last thing he wanted was for her to think his sentiments were insincere. She deserved better than that, better than him.

But he knew he couldn't let her go.

The sound of crinkling paper filled the air as he withdrew his hand from his pocket and smoothed out the sheet. If Hermione found out he had ripped a page out of a library book, she would've killed him. However, the book had anti-copy charms on it, and he was too stunned to write it out by hand. He had torn out the page and fled the library before even considering his actions.

Harry stared at the picture of the lovely white flower in disbelief as he read the information again. Susan meant "lily", and "lily" meant "to be joyful, bright, or cheerful". What were the odds that the meaning of Susan's name was his mother's own name? He would wager they were astronomical. It fit her, though. Before the war Susan had been joyful, cheerful, and bright. Harry longed to return her to her former glory.

Before, when he was dating Cho and Ginny, Harry had never felt this all-encompassing need to know. He hadn't been overcome with a desire to protect his girlfriend from anything. His greatest desire hadn't been bringing a smile to their faces. Now that he saw the depth of Susan's suffering, he understood the other girls had been mere passing fancies; he finally understood what could have kept his father going for years in the face of constant refusals.

"One smile would be worth all the effort. One kiss would be a dream come true," he sighed. He scrunched the page back up and stuffed it in his pocket, eyes locked on the crashing waves once more.

If he had to repeat the second task at this exact moment, he knew a different redhead would await him at the bottom of the lake. It would be a witch, not a wizard. She wouldn't have any freckles, and her hair would be closer to a burnished bronze than ginger. But most importantly, she would have no idea why she had been chosen as Harry Potter's hostage, and she wouldn't expect him to actually come save her.

And that would never change if he didn't openly pursue her.

James Potter never let anyone doubt his determination to win Lily Evans. Harry figured it was about time he should follow in his father's footsteps. Using a spell he had found in one of his father's journals (after he explored the Potter family vault, following the war), he Transfigured multiple blades of grass into a beautiful bouquet of flowers. A white lily for chastity, because he knew Susan to be a virtuous witch. A Peruvian lily for friendship, because he wanted her to know she could always come to him. A white stargazer lily for sympathy, because he understood what it was like to lose everyone you loved. A pink stargazer for prosperity and wealth, because he was Lord of two Noble and Most Ancient Houses, and could provide whatever she desired. Lilies of the valley, because he was devoted to her and wanted nothing more than to humbly beg for her affection and love.

Harry inhaled the sweet fragrance, garnered his courage, and strode away from the lake. The walk back to the school seemed to take five times as long as the trip to the lake had. Probably because his attention was focused firmly on the possible outcomes of his current actions.

Following the war, witches and wizards had leapt into relationships without a second thought for the consequences. Many were so relieved that Voldemort was gone that they had forsaken all propriety. He had the misfortune of stumbling across Malfoy and more than one girl in a compromising position. And though he would never reveal their names, his map had informed him about assignations between two pureblood witches and (from the overlapping dots) their lovers.

While Harry was thrilled the threat of Voldemort was gone, he didn't believe jumping into bed with anyone was an appropriate way to celebrate. Perhaps it was the Dursleys' constant rants on "trollops". Perhaps it was Sirius's assertion that any witch worth marrying would never offer her virginity to anyone but her bonded husband.

Perhaps it was his father's words, written in elegant handwriting, describing how a portion of the Potter family magic worked—alerting its master or mistress to the filthiness and darkness of others as a way to keep them safe. Witches who gave away their chastity outside of wedlock felt dirty, for lack of a better word, to Harry's magic. According to his father, that was because they were blessed with the ability to give life to the next generation, and such unions could only be blessed by Magic inside marriage. Love making was a literal joining of two peoples' magic, and without the bond they didn't meld together, just rubbed shards off on each other like cat hair sticking to clothes.

This ability was how he knew that Neville Longbottom and Hannah Abbot had bonded over the weekend, even though they hadn't announced it yet. It was also how he knew Susan Bones hadn't lost herself in lust to try to escape the grief and pain that ate away at her. Susan felt more pure than every other of age witch in Hogwarts, including some of the bonded ones.

"What if she's not interested?"

As soon as the question escaped his lips, he paused. He had long since gotten over the inane desire to be "just Harry". Sirius had helped him acknowledge his place in society and all the good his name could do. Titles were power, and "Harry Potter, Boy Who Lived, Savior of the Wizarding World, Chosen One, Lord of the Noble and Most Ancient Houses of Potter and Black, Vanquisher of V-t, and Conqueror, meant he could essentially do whatever he wanted and people supported his decisions.

That didn't mean Susan would want her name attached to his, though. She might have no desire to be thrust into the limelight and stand at his side. His wife would be revered by many of the wizards for being his chosen, and reviled by most of the witches out of jealousy.

Most of all, though, he didn't want Susan to think she had to accept his offering because he had killed Voldemort—thus avenging her family's deaths.

Harry knew many witches in her position would accept him for variable reasons: honor, lust, a desire for power, to be the lady of two Ancient Houses, or simply to be seen with him. He was placing all his trust in the Sorting Hat and what he knew of Amelia Bones. If Susan accepted him, it would be because she loved him, and she would remain loyal all her life.

His hands trembled as he continued toward the school and up the front steps. Now that the war was over and everyone was pairing off, he felt even more alone than he had before. Now that he was not only of age, but the confirmed Lord of his Houses, it felt like half his magic was missing. He needed a companion. His magic fairly begged for completion and nudged him toward Susan, reaching out to caress her whenever they were in the same room. Her own magic never rose to meet his, but she also never asked him to cease . . . so he could only hope that meant she was truly interested in him and was showing restraint, instead of throwing herself at him as a countless number of witches had during the past five months.

Gossip spread like Fiendfyre the second he stepped into the entrance hall and people saw him carrying the bouquet. Anyone with a pureblood education would know what they meant; everyone else would just see Harry Potter with flowers, which meant he had to be giving them to someone.

"Who do you think they're for?"

"He spends a lot of time with Granger and Lovegood."

"Think she'll say yes?"

"Quite daring arrangement if you ask me!"

"So sweet! I hope they're for me."

"Are you crazy? They're obviously for me!"

Several witches whipped out their wands and began casting hexes and jinxes at each other, but Harry only rolled his eyes. Immaturity was the last thing he needed in a partner. Poise was clearly undervalued by the petty witches battling for his favor; it was a pointless fight, and they all should have known that.

Harry's magic suddenly stretched out eagerly, like a puppy seeking affection. He glanced toward the pull just in time to see Hannah and Susan step off the main staircase. Their eyebrows were lifted in disbelief as they glanced around the entrance hall. Susan's lips didn't curve at the ridiculous sight, and her eyes showed only a passing interest. She seemed detached from the whole scene, as if she were a ghost observing silly humans, and not a living person herself.

_Dad succeeded. So can you_, Harry thought as he stiffened his shoulders.

One step led to another, and Harry was soon striding across the entrance hall, removing the distance that separated him from Susan. His magic twined through her gorgeous, burnished-red hair, insinuating itself through her long plait. It mimicked the bonding process, in which magical melding was sometimes referred to as plaiting or braiding.

He didn't stop until he reached her.

Susan glanced up at him, her face blank and her magic tucked into her skin. He hated seeing her like this; he missed her passion, her fire, the brilliant eyes, and radiant smile. He wanted to feel and sense her presence, not just see her with his eyes.

"Harry?"

Even spoken without inflection, his name sounded _right_ coming from her mouth. His magic practically tangled itself in her hair in response.

Harry took a deep breath and savored that one word. She was one of the few people who he didn't mind addressing him so familiarly. A name had power and spoke of certain levels of intimacy, and he desperately wanted to hear her address him one day as "husband" and "love".

He swept into an elegant bow, lowering himself farther than protocol demanded; he bowed deeper than he ever had to anyone before. When his head was level with her chest, he peeked up and silently offered her the bouquet of lilies.

"Her? I'm prettier than her!"

"She's so uptight, Potter. I can serve you better."

"I'll be happy to provide you with heirs!" more than one witch exclaimed. "We can practice right now!"

Pretending the nattering, uncouth witches didn't exist was hard, but not impossible. More than once he wanted to hex someone's mouth shut. He could barely believe that multiple women were blatantly propositioning him in public. Had they no shame? The young and pure witches had no need to hear such filthy and lewd comments! Utterly disgusted, he erected a silencing barrier around them, so Susan and Hannah wouldn't be bombarded with inappropriate words.

"I'm sorry you had to hear that," he said, anger and embarrassment giving his cheeks a red tinge.

"It's not the first time," said Hannah. Her nose was wrinkled as she stared out at the witches whose mouths kept flapping. "They have no shame."

Susan's fingers traced the edges of the lilies. The sight of her slender fingers caressing the smooth petals transfixed Harry. Her left ring finger was bare, but he wouldn't let it remain that way, as long as she was consenting, of course. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she gently tugged the bouquet from his grasp.

Triumph caused his face to split in an enormous grin as he straightened before her. He stared at her face, awed by the tender smile that curved her lips. Her eyes were sparkling with pleasure.

Susan's eyes never left his face as she carefully removed the white lily from the bouquet. Her hand was steady as she offered it back to him—the flower that symbolized her chastity, her purity, her innocence, and her love.

His breath snagged in his chest, knotting into an unrecognizable mess as emotion consumed Harry. He cupped it in his palms, ensuring he would never damage such a priceless gift and proving that he would protect and honor it.

"Innocence is fragile," whispered Susan.

"I know how to handle priceless items with care," Harry vowed. He would never abuse the sacred gift she was giving him—herself.

Susan stepped away from Hannah, moving slightly closer to Harry. Absolute trust filled the emptiness of her features as she studied him openly. "Your word, Lord Potter?"

His heart trilled at the request. Liquid honor ran in every Potter's veins. Once their word was given, it was absolute. They could not renege, even in death. "I'll be gentle. I'll treasure you all my days."

Then Susan's magic spilled from her skin, escaping its confines and rushing to meet Harry's. They clashed and coalesced, melding into perfect harmony. Harry clutched her to his chest and closed his eyes, fighting back tears as they bonded. She filled the raw, gaping wound that existed inside him.

For the first time in his entire life, he felt whole.


	9. Painting the Peacocks White

**Title:** Painting the Peacocks White

**Pairing:** Theodore Nott/Hailey Potter

**Warnings:** AU, genderbend, and shenanigans.

* * *

Hailey Potter was fourteen years old when the Order's most secret spy stealthily saved her from the graveyard. One minute she was dodging dark curses, and the next she was standing next to a beautiful fountain in an immaculate garden. Before she could even wonder where she was, or how she had come to be there, Narcissa Malfoy rounded the nearest hedge. Narcissa appraised her thoughtfully before saying, "You have potential. Cousin James has given me much to work with. I'll make a lady of you yet."

Unable to comprehend what exactly Narcissa had said, Hailey merely stared in disbelief. Was this yet another trap of Voldemort's? Somehow, it didn't seem like his style; she hadn't been assaulted yet.

"What do you mean by that?" whispered Hailey. She stared at Narcissa, untrusting of the entire situation. This made no sense whatsoever. What could Narcissa possibly gain from a statement like that? Besides, they weren't really related, were they?

Lucius Malfoy appeared behind his wife, pausing to place a hand on her shoulder. "The peacocks have arrived, darling. She'll blend right in when necessary."

Hailey, despite the fatigue that dragged at her body, pointed her wand at Lucius and Narcissa. "I don't know what you're planning, but I'll have no part in it." Her breathing felt labored as she contemplated Lucius's words. How could he possibly know that she was an Animagus?

She still remembered the look of amusement on Sirius's face when she shifted for the first time. He had laughed loudly, and then began teasing her about being secretly vain and proud. He hadn't done the research, as Hailey had once she realized what her form would be. Male peacocks might strut about flashily, all arrogant, and beg for attention, but peahens, their female counterpart, successfully hid away in the brush—or crowd, as it were—and avoided drawing attention. Peacocks sought out peahens, as people sought out Hailey Potter.

However, it would take more than a human peacock—flashy and bedecked with riches—to win her over.

When she delved into foreign magical beliefs surrounding the peahen, she found that it was often associated with royalty, eternal life, love, compassionate watchfulness, good will, nurturing, and kind-heartedness. The peahen was depicted more than once as giving up her eternal life to help humanity. Hailey knew that had she been immortal, she would have gladly cast it aside to erase Voldemort from existence.

"And the resemblance is acceptable?" Narcissa asked, as if Hailey weren't threatening them at wand-point.

"Uncanny, darling. No one will be able to tell she's not really one of them," Lucius assured his wife.

Hailey hadn't registered her Animagus form, and she had only completed the transformation a little over a month ago. Where could they have learned her secret? Ron and Hermione didn't even know she had been taking lessons from Sirius . . . Sirius!

As if the thought had summoned him, her godfather padded around the corner. It took him very little time to morph from a massive, shaggy dog into a somewhat bedraggled man. "Hello, Hailey." He waved one arm dramatically. "And welcome to our plan."

"Sirius," she ground out cautiously. If he hadn't come as a dog, she would've assumed he was someone else under Polyjuice. However, Animagus forms couldn't be duplicated. "What plan would this be?"

"The Make Sure Hailey Lives and Is Safe From Voldemort While We Find and Destroy His Horcruxes Plan!" Sirius said grandly.

Something about the way Sirius said 'Horcruxes' sent shivers down Hailey's spine. For the first time in years, she didn't want to know something. The word felt dirty in her mind and made her scar throb with unpleasant delight. She didn't want to befoul her tongue with its darkness, because it felt evil. Her magic rippled with disgust, causing her stomach to revolt; she barely managed to keep her long-past meal from resurfacing.

"How are you going to accomplish that?" asked Hailey. She didn't want to die, and she didn't want to be a martyr either. Her parents had given their lives to save hers, and dying would be spitting in the face of their sacrifice. She couldn't remember anything of them but the day Voldemort killed them. She wished she had memories though, that she could have grown up under their care. What would she be like? How would her life be different? Would she have felt loved, as she longed to feel?

"I've purchased several albino peacocks," Lucius said succinctly. "Whenever the wards alert us that company is arriving, you will transform and hide amongst them. It's best to keep something hidden in plain sight."

"And when I'm not a peahen?"

"Then you will reside with us in the manor, behind extensive wards," Narcissa said. She smiled, and its genuineness shocked Hailey. "It will be my honor to teach you all that a proper pureblood lady needs to know. That way you will be prepared for your eventual marriage following the war."

That little speech birthed many, many questions in Hailey's mind. However, one seemed more important than the rest, because that statement made the least sense to her. "Why would I need to know how a proper pureblood lady acts? I've been told quite vehemently that I'm a 'filthy half-blood' more than once—and by your son, no less."

Sirius spun around and glared at Lucius. "What have you been teaching the boy?"

"Better than that," Lucius muttered. "I'll certainly have a word with him when he returns for the summer holiday."

"I must apologize for Draco's ill-mannered tongue," said Narcissa most vociferously. "We will have words with him." She frowned, pulling her lips down in a way that shouldn't have been, but was, somehow elegant.

"Hailey, pup—hmm, can I still call you that if you're a peahen? I wonder what a baby peahen is—"

"Do focus, Sirius," Lucius drawled. "If you're capable of it, that is."

Sirius glared at him before turning back to face Hailey, who was beginning to suspect that she had fallen down a magical rabbit hole of some sort. They were all mental! "I'm your godfather and Alice Longbottom is your godmother. We're both purebloods. Magical godparents are tied by blood and magic to their godchildren. So, basically, our bloodlines plus James's erase any 'taint'"—he made air-quotes around the word as it passed his grimacing lips—"that Lily's Muggle blood would have caused."

Hailey swayed as the last traces of adrenalin in her system crashed. Her grip loosened, and she almost dropped her wand on the manicured lawn. Her head ached fiercely, her arm was still burning from where Pettigrew had cut her open, and all this new information kept blending together with the flash of green light that had ended Cedric Diggory's life. She couldn't do this right now; she needed to—"Sleep. Just let me sleep."

And then, overwhelmed, Hailey crumpled toward the fountain.

(o)

Hailey startled awake, wings flapping wildly as she struggled to reorient herself to the present—a present in which she had spent years with the Malfoys, hiding from Voldemort as others sought the Horcruxes. A time in which she had recently vanquished that insane murderer, after allowing him to hit her with the Killing Curse. Narcissa had saved her once again, had lied for her, and allowed the wizarding world to triumph over the greatest Dark Lord England had seen since the time of Mordred (who had dared to claim the Lady Morgana was not only unfaithful to Merlin, but that she had given herself to a Muggle; no greater lie had ever been spoken).

"Shh, calm down, beauty."

The voice spooked her, and Hailey reared back; her glorious ivory wings swung outward, catching the light breeze and restoring her balance.

"It's just me, my beautiful one. All is well."

Craning her long, elegant neck, Hailey turned her mossy green eyes on the pureblood wizard she had been huddled against. He was very tall and fit, with cocoa colored curls and aureate eyes. He was also very familiar, someone she had napped beside many times over the years. After all, Theodore Nott was one of the few people his own age that Draco Malfoy respected. Because of this, he was frequently invited to the manor. The first time Hailey had woken at his side, Theo had settled himself next to her while she napped in the sun. His slender fingers had smoothed down her silky feathers, and he had whispered to her of his broken family: his dead mother and his Death Eater father.

She had opened her eyes to find him next to her several times those first two months of summer after the Triwizard Tournament. He would gently caress her and whisper plots of how he would escape from the fate his father planned for him, because Theodore Nott was no man's servant, and especially not a branded one. He was exceedingly clever and determined, more so than any other man Hailey had ever met that was even remotely close to her age.

"You're safe, little beauty. I would never harm you."

She had heard the same words from his lips before, but they meant more to her now. Over the past few years, with his gentleness and care, Theo had won her love. Though he had thought her nothing but a beautiful peahen, he had shared countless secrets with her, had laid himself bare before her eyes and unconsciously offered his soul up for judgment.

Hailey did not find it wanting.

Sirius and the Malfoys were planning her a coming out gala. Hailey knew they were pre-screening suitors, that they were forming lists of who would be acceptable, who could be invited, who might be worthy of marriage dates, courtship, and so on. Hailey knew that she was supposed to remain hidden until then, because her guardians feared she would be kidnapped, or sundry other horrors would befall her. But this was _Theo_ at her side, the only wizard she wanted, and with all he had unknowingly confessed to her, he surely deserved her best kept secret. Right?

No matter how she looked at it, her decision was disobedient and potentially dangerous. However, matters of the heart never were about order; love was chaotic, and it conspired inside her to make her reckless.

Hailey settled against the grass and rested her head in his lap, as she had done many times before, but never when the Malfoys could see her. As Theo's fingers caressed her feathers with smooth strokes, she inhaled deeply and took a chance. A loud gasp of shock sounded above her as she reverted to her human form. Her white robes were up about her knees, her cheek was pressed against his thigh, her chest was against his leg, and his hand was buried in her tight curls.

Her eyes were clenched shut as she fisted the grass beneath her. If Narcissa saw her now, she would be in for the lecture of a lifetime. Narcissa would bristle with righteous indignation and snap, "Have you learned nothing I've taught you?" Lucius and Sirius would curse Theo without a second thought, for daring to be caught in such a compromising position with her. And that was disregarding Draco's delusions that they would make the perfect match.

"Do you truly mean that?" whispered Hailey, who was still unable to open her eyes. What if he was disgusted or felt betrayed? What if he hated her? She couldn't bear to see that on his face while he observed her.

"On my honor, Lady Hailey, I vow to never intentionally harm you." Her eyes snapped open at the vow, and he traced her cheekbones as she rolled to look up at him, his thigh cradling the back of her head. "You're safe with me, my beauty." A glint of cleverness flashed through his eyes; she had seen it many times before. He also looked well pleased with himself. Then his hands burrowed into her hair, being careful not to pull it. "Stay."

It was more of a command than a request, but Hailey didn't mind. All she wanted was to stay at his side. And once her godfather or one of the Malfoys finally came looking for her—and found her head in Theo's lap and his hands in her hair—she knew that order would be fulfilled.

"Did you know?" Hailey asked, suddenly wondering at all the secrets Theo had confessed to her. They were the truth, she could sense that much as a peahen, but why had he spoken to an animal in the first place?

Theo's fingers didn't still as they feathered through her hair. Then, voice rumbling possessively, he said, "Did you know you look unbearably beautiful beneath the full moon, your reflection shining off the Black Lake? All of your many colors morphed into a pristine picture of innocence. Magic painted you white as ivory, my beauty: the color of virtuous maidenhood. You've been _mine_ since then."


	10. Truth, Trust, and Tradition

**Title:** Truth, Trust, and Tradition

**Pairing:** Harry Potter/Astoria Greengrass

**Warnings:** canon prejudice from the other side and some sensuality.

* * *

Lady Astoria Greengrass's strawberry-blonde curls garnered much abuse as she contemplated the situation. Her right index finger wound through a curl, only to pull it taut, until it was as straight as her hair ever got, and then she released it. The lock of hair bounced against her chest, being the shortest layer she allowed. Her hair was unique, magnificent, and she wasn't above using it to attract the right sort of attention. However, that was the least of her concerns.

She stood on the balcony off the Ravenclaw tower, knowing her fellow housemates wouldn't approach her when she was on it. The few people who would dare to interrupt her when she sought privacy were in other houses.

Her cool, jade eyes watched the wizard flying through the air as if he hadn't a care in the world. Yet she was observant enough to notice how recklessly he flew, as if possible injury didn't matter. She couldn't fault him for his grief, though. Lord Harry Potter had lost his godfather, and Sirius Black (despite his rebelliousness) would have done his duty to his godson. Losing his only link to the Ancient Laws and Customs must hurt as much as the ruptured magical link that used to bind his magic to his godfather.

"Would you listen?" Astoria asked as she gazed upon Harry.

Before this year, she never would have presumed to speak to him. She never would have considered introducing herself—how rude and disrespectful! And she never would have pondered the merits of advising him on proper deportment, particularly when it came to expressing interest in a witch.

Astoria had been interested in Harry since the moment she first saw him. His magic was a fearsome thing, rippling with power and protectiveness. As a pureblood witch, one raised the _proper_ way, her magic naturally sought a guardian and protector for her. She wasn't without magical strength herself (being quite powerful), but she needed a wizard whose magic was firm and resolute, a man who wouldn't waver in the face of adversity. Very few qualified.

Still, she had been content to watch him from afar, sorrowing as he did, and rejoicing as he did. In fact, she had all but accepted that he would never notice her existence, until breakfast that very morning. He had glanced at Ginny Weasley with a hint of interest, something that had never been there before. Now, after all this time, Astoria was nigh compelled to stop him from committing to a relationship that would destroy all the respect true purebloods held for him. The Slytherins who secretly counted on him to save them from their parents' fate, the parents who subtly helped him when they could, desperate to be free of their insane master, would have no recourse but to cast him aside and leave him at the mercy of Dumbledore and the Dark Lord.

"But would you believe me?" she wondered aloud. "And would you ever forgive me for being so forward?"

Astoria's eyes squeezed shut as she stretched another curl out with her finger. This whole mess could have been avoided if Draco Malfoy had gotten to Harry before Ron Weasley did. Her nose wrinkled at the name, her only sign of distaste. Yet somehow, despite his unfortunate 'best mate', he had become an honorable wizard.

"In the end, breeding rings true."

The curl sprang back up, smooth hair kissing along her finger. True, she had no right to introduce herself. And yes, offering unasked for advice was unseemly and much too bold, especially for a second daughter, but this one decision—his choice of romantic partner—could save or discard several lives.

"Even if he thinks I'm a forward busybody"—she winced—"someone has to speak up. All his usual sources of information are either gone, won't know, or wouldn't dare accept their culpability."

Decision made, Astoria couldn't stop herself from trailing her eyes over Harry as he pulled off a brilliant Wronski Feint. This might be the last time she observed him unseen; it would definitely be the last time she passed him by without acknowledgement. She could only hope that when his eyes landed upon her in the future, they didn't convey contempt or distrust. Such emotions would kill the unspoken hope that she might someday be worthy of Lord Harry Potter.

Laughing bitterly, Astoria wrapped her arms around herself, curling her fingers in the jade robes she wore; they were embroidered with her own hair, and had a corseted top. They were, undoubtedly, more flattering than the shapeless black robes all students were required to wear to classes. Black was too harsh for her complexion, leaving her looking like an ill child due to her height and stature. At fourteen, she was petite and only five-foot-three. With the amount of magic she had been blessed with, she didn't expect to grow any more.

The visages of Ginny Weasley (why in the world the girl shortened her proper name, Astoria would never understand) and Cho Chang flashed through her mind. Both girls had brown eyes and played Quidditch. Astoria had jade green eyes and her preferred sport was riding the pegasi her family kept.

Tears pricked her eyes, but she battled them into submission; she would never cry where someone could see her. It didn't matter anyway, because she had known all along that the chances he would ever choose her were infinitesimal. True, she was a pureblood witch, just like Chang and Weasley, but that was almost irrelevant. Harry wasn't someone who would fall for a witch because of her ancestry. Regardless, many pureblood witches at Hogwarts were firstborn daughters. Astoria wasn't blind to the attributes of her fellow witches, because she needed to always be aware of the competition. Daphne had _legs_, Bones had _breasts_, Lovegood had _hips_, and the Patils were likely to share a bond with the same wizard.

"They offer greater temptations than strawberry-blonde curls, jade eyes, and a petite physique."

A whoop of delight echoed through the afternoon air, jolting Astoria from her self-deprecating thoughts. It didn't matter what he thought of her. She only hoped that he would believe her when she told him the truth.

Taking a fortifying breath, Astoria steeled her nerves and flicked her birch wand. "_Relashio!_" A stream of fiery sparks erupted into the sky. Harry barrel-rolled thrice, and then swung his Firebolt around, flying directly toward her.

Too soon for her nerves, Harry stopped to hover over the balcony. His burning emerald eyes swept from the top of her head to her slipper-shod feet. Then, face wiped clean of emotion, he landed near her and dismounted the broom. After propping it against the parapet, he raised an inquiring eyebrow. "Yes?"

Astoria struggled with the urge to fidget, but she didn't want to seem like even more of a child than she sometimes looked. She lifted the hem of her robes, holding them just a touch too long so he could glimpse her delicate ankles, and then sank into a deep curtsey—deeper than any curtsey she had ever given in her life. "Lord Potter, I beg your forgiveness for this horrible breech of manners, and for disturbing your leisure time." He didn't say a word, and she barely smothered a flinch. "I fear I find myself in a situation my parents would be appalled to learn I instigated." Her legs began to burn with the exertion of holding completely still in such a pose; he was still silent. "I-I fear there are some things you are unaware of, my lord, and as no one else seems willing or able to impart the necessary knowledge unto you"—she swallowed and felt tears threaten to overwhelm her again—"I took it upon myself to blatantly ignore propriety and speak to you."

His silence condemned her. This was the worst outcome imaginable. This was even worse than the time she had overheard Lady Malfoy telling an acquaintance that Astoria would be a 'tolerable' match for Draco _if_ Pansy, Daphne, and a few other pureblood witches were already spoken for.

_What in the world was I thinking? What right do I have to bother him and spout unasked for—?_ A tanned, calloused hand entered her field of vision before she could finish the thought. Harry's hand cupped her left elbow, gently supporting her and lifting her back to her feet; it was only then that Astoria realized she had begun trembling, hands fisting in the skirt of her robes most viciously. She couldn't glance away from his hand on her elbow, savoring the warmth that would surely become nothing more than a treasured memory. Oh, what must he think of her?

"Are you all right, Lady Astoria?" Harry asked solicitously.

Her chin snapped upward, and she knew that shock overtook her face before she could even think to hide it. He knew her name? "I . . . I . . ." She sounded like a blasted fool! His hand slid up her arm to fold gently around her shoulder, and she wanted to scream with joy at the unintended caress.

His brow furrowed. "What's wrong?"

"You know my name." It came out sounding like an illegitimate heir: half full of awe at the existence of such a truth and half loathing the origins from whence it came. Where would Harry Potter have ever learned her name? She couldn't think of a precise instance in which her name would have been mentioned without negative connotations. She was probably 'a slimy Slytherin's stuck-up, little sister'.

Harry stilled. "I do." The words were careful, and her ability to read his face vanished, as if he had locked all his thoughts and emotions inside a vault at Gringotts.

The realization that Harry Potter was touching her, and that he already knew her name, pummeled into her all at once. This was the fulfillment of so many daydreams that it was improbable. Dazedly, she tapped her wand against the balustrade. The moment an elongated bench appeared, she collapsed onto it. "Please join me," she said as she patted the space beside her.

He scrutinized her for a moment before conceding to her request. "As you wish, my lady."

After he sat beside her, Astoria turned so that her right knee brushed against his left leg. She didn't care how improper it was, discarded her mother's voice berating her in her mind, and relished the renewed contact with the wizard she had long wanted for her own. If this was the only time in her life she would be allowed physical contact with him, then she would zealously gather as many brief touches as he would allow her. For a second, Astoria thought he was going to reach out and clasp her hand. He didn't, though, and she banished the thought as wishful thinking.

"What did you wish to discuss?" asked Harry.

Astoria bit the inside of her cheek as she was forcibly reminded of why, exactly, Lord Harry Potter was anywhere near her person. Now that he was next to her, the last thing she wanted to do was bring up his possible attraction to Ginny Weasley. But her feelings didn't matter at all, in this case. "I humbly ask your forgiveness for the impertinent topics I will raise. It is not my intention to make you uncomfortable in any way, Lord Potter."

Harry blinked, and then nodded. "Don't worry about my feelings. Speak truthfully of what needs to be said."

Right. She could do this. She really could. Harry had given his permission, after all. "At breakfast this morning, I noticed you looking at Ginny Weasley"—her family had long lost their right to a real title, and she didn't even deserve a 'Miss'—"with a certain . . . interest." The last word was almost mumbled, to her mortification. "I would advise you against following such an interest, my lord."

He leaned backward, and Astoria keenly felt the loss of their legs touching. Her magic rippled with abandonment. "Oh?" Harry raised one eyebrow, which was unbearably appealing. He looked like a reprobate. "Why is that?"

"Because they won't help you if you spit in the face of Magic itself. They won't trust you if you defy all Merlin and Morgana taught our ancestors. People will _die_, Lord Potter. She's unworthy of you."

"Why?"

Astoria closed her eyes and prayed to Merlin that one of his greatest wizards wouldn't flee on a Firebolt at the next words she spoke. Harry didn't understand them in context, and they were likely to make him loathe the very thought of her. "She comes from a family of Blood Traitors." Opening her eyes again took a great deal of daring on her part; she had never enjoyed confrontation.

"You say that as if you really believe it," Harry said, grimacing as if she had disappointed him somehow.

"I do."

"Why?"

"Because it's the truth." He shifted, as if to rise, and words spilled from her lips without a second thought. "I swear on my magic that the Weasleys are Blood Traitors in the eyes of Magic." A tendril of her magic wove through the air and encircled his wrist, proving its allegiance remained with her.

"Next you'll be agreeing with Malfoy and calling Hermione a 'Mudblood'." The light in his eyes seemed to beg her to disagree with him.

"I would never speak such a vulgar word," Astoria contradicted. A wince followed thereafter. "But Heir Malfoy wasn't incorrect in applying it to her."

"And I suppose you think the same of my mother," Harry snarled as he leapt to his feet. His magic boiled about him, and the raw rage it emanated made her feel ill.

"No!" she cried as she hurried to stand. She should have known he would make such an assumption; the inaccurate connection made sense from his view of things. She was botching this horribly! "Lily Evans, your mother, was a wonderful witch: clever, kind, virtuous, and more. Your father wouldn't have courted her otherwise, regardless of her immense beauty."

"Snape called my mother a 'Mudblood' in front of a group of people," Harry bit out tersely.

Astoria gasped. Her eyes widened in disbelief as she lifted a hand to cover her quivering lips. "You can't be serious. His mother sponsored her! He, of all people, knew she served Magic and honored her gift."

"Snape's mother sponsored my mother? What does that mean?" The tension lessened in his shoulders, and his magic stopped writhing in a cloud around him.

"Purebloods are raised with a full knowledge of their history, ancestry, and our roots. Magic is alive. It's a sentient energy, and it gifted slivers of itself to people with admirable qualities: honor, virtue, honesty, courage, perseverance, and so forth. In return, all it asked was that all people gifted with parts of itself be treated equally. Blood doesn't really matter; it's Magic that matters, my lord." He nodded once, sharply, so she continued speaking. "Since purebloods have the greatest knowledge on the topic, scrolls and tablets that date back millennia, they are charged with guiding the half-bloods and, most of all, teaching new Magic users—the Muggle-born—about our traditions and culture."

"So a Mudblood is . . . ?" His impatient stare demanded an answer.

"A Muggle-born who refuses to be sponsored for whatever reason." Astoria shrugged, unable to believe anyone who had been gifted with magic wouldn't want to learn of its origins. "I know for a fact that Miss Granger refused the offer the Malfoy family made; that's why Heir Malfoy despises her so much."

Harry huffed, as if a Bludger had just hit him. He reeled, before sitting back on the bench. "Why would she do that? And why wouldn't she mention meeting Malfoy before?"

"Some sponsorship contracts contain a clause that allows for bonding between a family member and the person being sponsored. It's not required, of course, just an option for the future. I don't know for _sure_, but from what I do know of Miss Granger, I imagine she thought it antiquated and barbaric. Once someone refuses such an offer, spits in the face of Magic itself, they are forbidden to speak of it, on pain of losing the very gift they were given," Astoria said. While Draco Malfoy certainly wouldn't be her first choice of spouse, she knew he would be a loyal husband. Granger could've done a lot worse—and was going to, if the unsubtle glances she kept giving Ron Weasley meant what Astoria thought they did.

"And Hermione spurned Draco, only to set her cap at Ron, a 'Blood Traitor', am I right?" Harry asked. "That's why Draco hates her and calls her that horrible name."

"Exactly right."

"You know, the first time I spoke with him, he said: 'I really don't think they should let the other sort in, do you? They're just not the same, they've never been brought up to know our ways. Some of them have never even heard of Hogwarts until they get the letter, imagine. I think they should keep it in the old wizarding families.'"

"Heir Malfoy doesn't really think that," Astoria said. "He must've been hurt and embarrassed by Granger's refusal. I know his parents wouldn't foster that kind of attitude."

"Hmm," Harry hummed noncommittally.

He seemed to be taking the news better than she had thought he would. That might be because she had heard Granger wasn't speaking to him anymore—something to do with Potions—and Weasley was publicly snogging the face off Lavender Brown, who clearly had no self-respect whatsoever.

"Please explain to me what 'Blood Traitor' means, my lady."

For a beat too long, Astoria cradled herself in those two words: my lady. To be permanently referred to as such, by him, in the most possessive manner, was one of her lifelong and fruitless pursuits. Why would he ever pick her, when Daphne was so much more? Assuming the Greengrass girls even appealed to him. Neither of them had brown eyes or played Quidditch, after all.

This was the most difficult part. She knew how close he was to the Weasleys, and she was about to ruin their perfect image. "Blood Traitors are those who can't sponsor because they lost the honor to do so." He waved a hand, indicating his desire for her to clarify. She did, once again thankful he hadn't zoomed off on his broom. "The current head of the Weasley Family is so obsessed with Muggles that when his father sponsored a Muggle-born, he tried to force her into a _marriage_." She unwittingly said 'marriage' in the same way Harry's Aunt Petunia said 'magic'.

His brow furrowed once more. "I don't. . . . Forcing someone into marriage is horrible, of course, but that doesn't account for your obvious level of disgust. Especially in a world that employs betrothal contracts."

Of all the things Sirius Black hadn't been able to impart unto his godson before dying, why couldn't this have been one of them? Astoria averted her eyes, aggravated at her flushing cheeks; they felt ablaze. "In the magical world the true joining of two people in an eternal commitment is called 'bonding'. _Marriage_ is the equivalent of a lifelong mistress, or kept woman," she whispered. Her parents would be horrified if they ever heard such words leave her lips.

"Magic only approves of bonding," Harry stated, drawing the correct conclusion.

She nodded jerkily, and a mass of curls tumbled over her shoulders and lay against her chest. "All magic is to be respected. _Marriage_ would relegate one of Magic's chosen into a lesser, cruel position. Especially since he would have still been able to bond, but she would not."

"So 'Blood Traitor' means traitor to the sworn duty Magic assigned those of pure blood?" As soon as she nodded, he continued. "That's why Malfoy was so angry I accepted Ron's friendship and not his. That's why he said: 'You'll soon find out some wizarding families are much better than others, Potter. You don't want to go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there.'"

"That makes sense," Astoria agreed. She watched Harry tentatively, but he wasn't letting much shine through: thoughts or emotions. She took the fact that his leg was just barely touching her own as a sign that he believed her. His presence alone tempered her fear that he would hate her at the end of this conversation.

"So how, exactly, does Ginny tie into this? Who won't help me? Who won't trust me? Who will die?" he asked, rapid-fire.

It took her a moment to recall the words she had expelled earlier. "If you court her, it will ruin their faith in you. The Death Eaters won't help you. The Slytherins won't trust you. And because of that, many people will die, Lord Potter. Many people."

"The Death Eaters. Help me?" He stared at her as if he thought she was blooming mad.

Astoria lined up her thoughts and arguments meticulously. If she bungled this part, all the progress she had made was for naught. "Lord Potter, with all due respect to your own magical power and dueling ability, do you really believe six students, aged fifteen and under, could out-duel and escape from a large group of skilled, pureblood adult wizards and witches? Is luck the reason you evaded death at the end of the Triwizard Tournament, when you, yourself, said that the Dark Lord and nine Death Eaters were present and you were gravely wounded? Do you honestly think a house-elf could leave the grounds it's magically bound to without express permission from one of its masters? They're fighting against the influence of the Dark Marks as best they can!" she declared passionately.

"Some of them are murderous, bigoted louts. However, most of them really were Imperiused. I swear it on my magic." She reached out and grabbed his hand, needing him to feel and know that she was telling the truth. "The Dark Lord is a monster! And according to prophecy, you're the only hope they have of being freed. If you court Ginny Weasley, they will see it as a betrayal of all they've fought to protect and teach. You are literally their only hope, my lord." The tears were back in her eyes, and she wasn't sure if she could stifle them this time.

"So please," Astoria whispered, "I beg you to choose anyone other than Ginny Weasley."

"I don't have feelings for Ginny, Lady Astoria," Harry said as he absently rubbed his thumb across the back of her hand.

That didn't make any sense. She had seen his interest this morning with her own eyes! "But I saw . . ." Could she have been mistaken?

"I thought she might be an intriguing way to pass time while I waited. I didn't know such a thing would have such dire consequences, else I never would've entertained the thought in the first place," said Harry. His shoulders slumped, as if he was ashamed of his own ignorance, when the lack of knowledge wasn't his fault at all. Someone should have offered to sponsor him; though, until recently, like the others, she had assumed he was taught everything he needed to know as a child.

"While you waited for what?" Astoria asked. It almost sounded like he was waiting for a woman. But that was preposterous. All the witches she knew would be willing to drop everything, even a current courtship, to have a chance with him.

"For 'whom'?" he corrected. He lifted a hand and stroked her cheek, causing her breathing to cease momentarily.

Astoria stuttered as she asked, "W-while you w-waited for w-whom?"

Harry's thumb feathered across her lower lip. Tingles spread throughout her body, and she sighed with delight. This couldn't possibly be real. She must have fallen asleep at some point. But her dreams had never felt this true before. . . . "Your fifteenth birthday seems like it's a lifetime away, Astoria."

Her eyes fluttered shut at the sound of his tongue caressing her name. He had dropped the title, and she had her answer. He was, impossibly, waiting for _her_. She, Astoria Greengrass, a second daughter—she could scarcely allow the thought to take root. And he was right, her fifteenth birthday felt much too far away now that she knew he was anticipating it, and his legal right to court her. Eight months was an eternity.

"You choose me?" Astoria asked. "Are you sure?"

"On my honor, you are the lady I want at my side for eternity," Harry breathed. His magic crackled about him; his eyes shone like bejeweled lightning. "Your honesty and willingness to do what you felt was right—in the face of potential recriminations and hatred—solidified my earlier feelings; they will not change."

Astoria stood, dislodging his hand and sending it tumbling into his lap. His body and magic flinched at the action, as if she had just rejected him and fulfilled his worst nightmares.

"My lady?" The words resembled the whimpering of an abused Crup, and this time she couldn't stop the tears.

Before her fifteenth birthday, she literally couldn't speak of her feelings for him. It was one of the laws Morgana instituted to protect naïve and innocent witches from wizards who would seek to use them ill. Her magic would bind all words of love and commitment in her throat, but Harry couldn't possibly know such a thing. He was going to think she didn't care. Unless she . . .

Astoria stepped closer to him, coming to rest between his splayed legs. Her heart beat frantically as she set her hands upon his firm shoulders. His face betrayed nothing but confusion and pain as he gazed at her, and she wondered if he thought she intended to shove him backward and off the balcony. That was something she would never, ever do. And if this was the only way she could tell him that her heart rested in his palms, then so be it.

Her pale pink lips sealed over his. He froze for a moment, and then his hands burrowed into her hair and cradled her head, thumbs dancing along her rosy cheeks. A tendril of her magic extended from her core and slid inside his own, joining them together in a pale imitation of a true bonding. He gasped, and then clutched her tightly, before slowly pulling away.

"Your maiden's kiss," he breathed. He rubbed his chest, right over his heart. "I can feel it—you—inside me. Sirius told me about it, but I never thought—"

A maiden's kiss: the first kiss of a virgin, willingly given, and blessed by magic. It was one of the greatest honors she could ever bestow on a man. It was a prelude to bonding, the tendril of magic marking them as unavailable to all others. Only death or infidelity could break it, and the latter would strip the offender of their magic altogether.

"Will you wait for me?" asked Astoria.

"Of course." Harry hugged her close, his head resting against her chest lightly. "There will be no need for distractions, my lady. I swear to wait for you—as long as it takes."

Astoria's fingers carded through his hair, and she pressed his head firmly against her chest, so he could hear her heartbeat. It spoke the words she couldn't. She wasn't a firstborn daughter. She didn't have Daphne's legs, Bones's breasts, Lovegood's hips, or a twin to form a triad bond with. But, apparently, none of those things mattered in the least.

Because she still had Harry Potter.


	11. To Obtain Her Surrender

**Title:** To Obtain Her Surrender

**Pairing:** Zacharias Smith/Hadrianna Potter, canon side pairings

**Warnings:** genderbend, Post-DH, eighth-year, playing loose with a few canon implications, and sexual insinuations.

* * *

Fawkes flashed into the Great Hall in a burst of flames, drawing Hadrianna Potter's attention away from Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger, who were making ridiculously sappy faces at each other. She was happy for them, truly, but seeing how happy they were only made her feel more alone. She didn't have anyone, had never had anyone.

Voldemort had been much too obsessed, offering her a place at his side more than once. She wasn't going to paint a target on anyone's back, so she did her best not to notice any of the guys who wanted to date her.

The Sorting Hat was clutched in Fawkes's talons, and Hadrianna flashed back to second year and the Chamber of Secrets. The last time she had seen the two together, she had been given the Sword of Gryffindor and fought a basilisk. The war was over now, so what possible reason could Fawkes have to be in possession of the Sorting Hat? The Sorting had been performed the night before, so it wasn't needed for the ickle firsties.

Fawkes glided across the hall on wings of fire, circled the Hufflepuff table, and then swooped down and dropped the hat on top of Zacharias Smith's head. The brim of the hat moved, but no words echoed through the now silent Great Hall. Zach looked as stunned as she felt, and she wondered if her friend knew why the Sorting Hat had been brought to him. It didn't look like it.

Then understanding swamped his face. All right, so maybe Zach did know why this was happening, after all. He reached up and pulled the hat off his head, revealing something curved and silvery-white lying in his pale blond hair.

"Is he really?" asked Hermione. She craned her neck to see better.

"Smith? It came to Smith? Ugh, just great. Now he'll be even more of a pompous prat," Ron groaned. His eyes were narrowed, but that didn't hide the flash of jealousy in them. "Already rich, isn't he? Now this too? Some people have all the luck," he muttered.

"Is he really what?" Hadrianna asked as Zach reached up and grabbed the shiny thing off his head. It looked kind of like a bracelet of sorts. Why would the Sorting Hat give Zach a glittering bracelet?

Fawkes's talons curled around the top of the hat, and they vanished.

"Lord Hufflepuff," said Hermione as she bounced in her seat.

Hadrianna blinked and then spun around to face her friend. "What?" Yes, she knew that Zach was the last scion of the Hufflepuff Line—he had told her so himself in sixth year—but how could Hermione know that? It was a secret, or so she had thought. He had smugly informed her that Founder's Heirs should stick together—excluding He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, of course.

"His nose is going to be even higher in the air than Malfoy's," Ron spat as he glared at Zach. "Oh, look at me, I'm a Founder's Heir and Lord Hufflepuff. Bow to me, cretins!"

Hermione grinned at Ron. "I didn't know you knew that word. You're expanding your vocabulary. I'm so proud of you!"

Ron blushed and stuttered.

Offended, Hadrianna huffed and folded her arms. "I'll have you know that I'm a Founder's Heir, too. Gryffindor's, remember? Are you saying it's a bad thing?" She wanted to sigh and hang her head. Ron was a good friend, but when his jealousy got out of hand (quite frequently) he was a right prat. Besides, Zach didn't deserve his disparagement.

Zach was brilliant. He had never treated her like a princess on a pedestal just because she was the blasted Girl-Who-Lived.

They had casually run into each other a great many times in fifth and sixth year, but always when Ron and Hermione weren't around. She hadn't given much thought to how important he had become to her until she was hunting Horcruxes and he wasn't there to tease her, poke fun at the foibles of others, and give her little gifts. No matter what time of day it was, or even when they had last seen each other, he always had a gift for her: it could be as simple as a chocolate frog, or as elaborate as a self-correcting quill or a gift card to a wizarding clothing shop. He would hand those to her intently, a silent command to use them, and say, "Buy yourself something new." Unlike others, he never snickered at her for wearing her cousin's cast-offs. She loved that about him.

"No! I'm just saying—you're not like that git!" Ron exclaimed, cheeks flushing.

"He's not a git," Hadrianna said mutinously. She had never spoken up for him before, because she hadn't wanted Voldemort or the Slytherins to find out she was defending someone and attack him. Now, though, she wouldn't allow that kind of talk, just as she wouldn't let other people insult Ron and Hermione.

While Voldemort had still been alive and hunting her, she hadn't been able to admit, even to herself, that she might possibly fancy Zach. Now, though . . .

"Whatever his personality traits, we can be sure of one thing," Hermione interjected, before a fight could break out between Hadrianna and Ron. "He has been recognized as Lord Hufflepuff."

"But how do _you_ know that?" Hadrianna demanded. She carded a hand through her scarlet waist-length hair and then absently began braiding a section of it. The color was identical to her mother's, and scarlet hair was a trait of the Prewett family; there was rampant speculation that Lily Evans was an illegitimate child of the late Lord Prewett, which would make Ron her cousin. Even without the official confirmation, she was glad she had never been attracted to any of the Weasleys. That would have been too bizarre for her. She wasn't obsessed with blood purity like the Blacks had been and had no desire to marry one of her cousins.

Hermione huffed and tilted her head in the same way she normally did before asking, _Don't you read?_ However, she didn't this time. "Well the Sorting Hat gave him the unicorn bracelet, of course!"

Knowing her next question would annoy Hermione didn't stop her from asking it. She wanted answers. "The what?"

Hermione straightened her shoulders and leaned forward in a conspiring manner. "The unicorn bracelet is—"

"Absolutely none of your business, Granger," Zach spat. "So I would greatly appreciate it if you would keep your mouth shut for once. Do you think you can manage to possess knowledge without sharing it with the whole world?"

A blush overtook Hermione's face, and Ron stood, his fork pointed threateningly at Zach. "Don't talk to her like that."

Zach placed both his hands on the Gryffindor table, one on either side of Hadrianna, and leaned forward, his chest meeting the back of her head. "Then keep her in line. Your girlfriend has no right to discuss my private family affairs in public."

Instead of blowing up, as Hadrianna had thought he would, Ron nodded ruefully and sat back down. "You're right, of course. Apologize, Hermione."

Hermione looked as flabbergasted as Hadrianna felt, but she dutifully said, "I'm sorry, Smith."

"Accepted," Zach replied. "Just see that you don't do it again. You like learning, so why don't you ask Weasley about wizarding etiquette. You have a lot to learn."

Hadrianna felt like she should say something, but she didn't know what. Honestly, she felt guilty for asking Hermione about the bracelet in the first place, and riling Zach's temper. But she could understand where he was coming from; she hated it when people gossiped about her, and she had been grilling Hermione on something related to him behind his back. Hadrianna winced. She should have just waited and asked Zach her questions the next time they randomly bumped into each other.

"Step away from her."

Hadrianna wondered if people would think she was more mental than normal if she bashed her head against the table. If she had known saving Malfoy from the bloody Fiendfyre would result in him practically stalking her, she might have left him to die. He always had this weird gleam in his eyes when he stared at her, as if he was imagining something. She really didn't want to know what it was.

"I don't think I will," Zach said, still caging her with his body.

A quick glance at the high table showed the teachers smiling down at her with amusement. Great. So she obviously wasn't going to get any help from them. Traitors.

"I'm warning you, Smith," Malfoy snarled. "Get away from her."

Zach snorted. "Why should I? It doesn't seem like Hadrianna has a problem with my being so close to her." As if to prove that point, he stepped even closer. The front of his body was now plastered all along her back, and her head was nestled against his chest.

The surrounding Gryffindors inhaled sharply and edged away from her. Hadrianna knew they were awaiting the tirade that followed anyone calling her by her full name. Even Ron and Hermione were eyeing her warily. It didn't come, though. Zach had granted himself permission to use her full name in fifth year, haughtily informing her that her parents had given it to her and that a future lady, even one of Gryffindor's line, should never be called 'Harry'. She hadn't known what he meant by the lady comment, but referring to her parents had let him emerge victorious from the argument.

"She's just too polite to tell you to back the bloody hell away from her, Smith. I recommend you do so now. I'm not polite enough to keep myself from cursing you for touching her," Malfoy spat.

"He's not polite at all," Ron muttered.

"Stay out of this, Weasley!" Zach and Draco said in unison, each sparing him a scathing glance for interrupting.

Hadrianna stared at the high table, unable to avert her eyes from the empty seat that Snape used to sit in every meal. She could see the taunting smirk on his face, and hear the drawl in his voice. She knew exactly what he would say if he were present to see this, "Really, Potter, inciting war between the houses—just like your father." In private, though, he would pat her head and smile awkwardly while murmuring, "Men fighting over you already—just like your mother."

"You seem to be operating under a misconception, Malfoy," Zach said. He removed one hand from the table and wrapped his arm around Hadrianna, right under her chest. "Do you see this?" Zach's other hand rose to her hair and burrowed into it, causing Parvati to stare at him with horror. He lifted a section, and she could feel that it was the part she had tied back with the ribbon he had given her after the final battle occurred. The ribbon was satin: black with gold stitching. She had assumed it was a playful joke about him being in Hufflepuff, but the rage on Malfoy's face didn't seem to agree.

"That's not possible," Malfoy said. His jaw was clenched, making his chin look pointier and his face more sharp.

"Oh, but it clearly is," Zach said smugly. His fingers danced through the strands of her hair, distracting her from the conversation. She loved having her hair played with.

"You must have tricked her," Malfoy spat. His right hand was white where it gripped the hawthorn wand she had returned to him. For a moment, she wondered if he might snap it in his rage.

"Hadrianna accepted the ribbon of her own free will." Zach tugged her hair lightly. "Isn't that right?"

She felt warm and safe. This was brilliant. Wait . . . hadn't Zach just asked her something? "Hmm? Oh, yes. You gave it to me."

"But did he tell you what it means?" Malfoy demanded, eyes like slits of silver.

Hadrianna cocked an eyebrow. That made no sense whatsoever; what was Malfoy playing at? "It's a hair ribbon, Malfoy. It doesn't mean anything."

"You didn't tell her?" Ron and Malfoy yelled in unison, before glaring viciously at each other.

Fed up with the whole argument that she could not follow in the least, Hadrianna slammed her hands on the table. Zach released her and stepped backward, which made Malfoy grin victoriously. "Look, I don't know what's going on"—Malfoy opened his mouth, but she ignored him—"and I don't care. Yes, Zach gave me a ribbon. Yes, I accepted it. Yes, I'm wearing it. End of story."

"You call him 'Zach'?" Hermione asked, stunned, speaking for the first time since Ron had advised her to apologize.

Hadrianna huffed and put her head in her hands. Her reply was muffled. "It is his name, Hermione." What was the big deal? She didn't understand at all, and it was starting to piss her off.

A soft cry of pain made Hadrianna look up in time to see a small bolt of magic leave the bracelet around Zach's wrist and zap Ginny, who had been staring at it in awe. Ginny was mortified, and Ron suddenly looked like he wanted to castrate Dean, but Hadrianna had no clue why. Why would—? Wait a minute. Hadn't Hermione said it was a unicorn bracelet? Hadrianna grabbed Zach's hand and stared at the bracelet; it spiraled around his arm like a circular staircase, covering roughly six inches of skin. It was silver-white, magical, and felt pure. Could it really be—"Unicorn horn?" she mumbled.

"Yes," Zach agreed.

Then why would it . . . ? "But you're not married!" Hadrianna exclaimed, staring at Ginny in disbelief.

The only thing her Aunt Petunia and Snape had ever agreed on was that she was never, ever, _ever_ to gift a man with her virginity before marriage. Snape had then happily volunteered (or she thought it was happily; his eyes had shone with a fervent light) to curse anyone who tried to convince her otherwise.

As Ginny was stuttering, she saw Hermione lean against Ron's side, which put a greater distance between her and the bracelet. "You didn't!" But Hermione's red cheeks and Ron's coughing told a different story.

These were her friends. What if people thought she had . . . ?

Hadrianna almost gave herself whiplash as she snapped her head back to stare at Zach and Malfoy. "I never! I certainly haven't—" She couldn't bring herself to say the actual words. "I'll prove it!" She dropped Zach's hand and then closed her fingers around the bracelet itself. Her magic seeped out of her skin and hung around her like a foggy cloud; it was iridescent white—just like the bracelet.

As Malfoy gaped at her, Zach slid the bracelet off his wrist and extended it to her. Hadrianna was so accustomed to accepting gifts from him that she didn't even think to refuse it. She slid it over her own hand and onto her wrist, admiring its beauty as it resized itself to closely hug her skin.

The awe on Malfoy's face disappeared, lividness taking its place. "You choose him? Why? Why save me if you were going to choose him?"

Hadrianna's forehead wrinkled. "What are you talking about?" The leer on his face was unnerving: a mix of desire and hatred and loss.

"You've just accepted my final courtship gift, Hadrianna," Zach said. The grin on his face was beatific, as if he had just accomplished a Herculean task.

She blinked. "Courtship?" Now that she thought about it, the gifts had gotten more extravagant over time, and he had always looked quite pleased with himself when she took them from his hands. Was that why Snape had laughed at her when she had told him she had gotten the white lily from a friend?

Zach's fingers caressed the bracelet on her arm possessively. Then he leaned over and whispered in her ear, "The plebeians call it the unicorn bracelet because it's crafted from unicorn horn. In the family, we call it the Matchmaker. It was Helga Hufflepuff's, and is used to find a wife for each Lord Hufflepuff—a witch who is pure in heart, mind, spirit, and _body_."

Hadrianna tugged some hair forward to hide her face as the compliments and implications got to her. She could feel the heat in her cheeks, and didn't want people thinking Zach was whispering inappropriate things in her ear.

"Even before the hat gave me the Matchmaker, I already knew you were it for me, Hadrianna," Zach whispered.

"So we're—what, engaged?"

The smile on his face was amused, but he looked more worried than anything. "No. Hadrianna, once a witch places the bracelet on her wrist, she's Lady Hufflepuff."

Hadrianna gulped and stared at the possessive grip Zach had on the bracelet. She waited for righteous indignation to flood through her body, for hatred to swell at the thought of being _tricked into marriage_. But all she could hear was Sirius's voice telling story after story of how her father had ruthlessly and persistently sought her mother. All she could see was Snape glaring at Zach and ordering him to detention for the silliest of reasons, and Zach not complaining once. All she could feel was the love she had buried so deep that Voldemort would never glimpse it.

"Do you love me?" she breathed. His actions spoke of his love, but she needed the words. No man had ever said them to her before and meant them—at least, not in a romantic way.

"With the love of a Hufflepuff—eternally loyal," said Zach solemnly.

She glanced down at her lap and then grinned. Let him suffer for a few moments for plotting against her. He must have learned of her father's courtship of her mother and sought to avoid the drama by tricking her into it. Instead of being irate, she was impressed; it proved how dedicated and hardworking he was. She had nothing to worry about; Zach was the ultimate Hufflepuff. "Why did Ron and Malfoy freak out about the ribbon? What does it mean?"

"Black and gold are my family colors. By wearing it you declare that you are in an exclusive courtship with me and other wizards are to leave you alone until you decide to marry me or break off the courtship," he confessed.

"Which I, of course, had no idea how to do, seeing as I didn't even realize you were courting me." Hadrianna cocked an eyebrow, enjoying how nervous he got as she refused to react to his pronouncement that she had inadvertently agreed to be his wife.

"I love you, Hadrianna," Zach said. He leaned forward and stared directly into her eyes. "I might not be a Potter, but I was never going to give up the woman I love to anyone else. I learned from your father. He would be proud of me. I won the witch of my dreams."

A gentle smile graced her face. "Yes, you did."

And then she kissed him in front of their silent audience, sighing as he pulled her into a tight embrace. His hands tangled in her hair and tilted her head. As he claimed her mouth, hidden behind the scarlet curtain of her hair, she wondered if her mother had felt this precious and loved while finally surrendering to her father.


	12. Of Tresses and Tenderness

**Title:** Of Tresses and Tenderness

**Pairing:** Draco Malfoy/Hadara Potter

**Warnings:** AU, genderbend, and passing mention of canon Blackcest.

* * *

Hadara Potter winced as her headache worsened with each word Malfoy spewed. His voice grated on her auditory nerves, and she was considering punching him in the face just so he would shut up. Then again, he might burst into high-pitched shrieks if she did, and that would be torture. Hadara wasn't the least bit masochistic, so her fist stayed balled at her side, where it belonged.

Why, exactly, had McGonagall decided that she and Malfoy should be partners on a huge Transfiguration project? Her Head of House must've had too much catnip or something, because there was no chance that she and Malfoy had complementary magic. Malfoy hadn't stopped ranting the entire trip down to the dungeons for Potions, his complaints becoming more vociferous with each step.

"You're just going to waste my time and—"

"Malfoy," she snapped, raising one hand to press against her left temple, "if I wanted to bloody well waste your time I'd ask you to brush my hair. It grew two feet on my sixteenth birthday and won't let me cut it. It takes me hours to brush it each night." She growled and closed her eyes, hoping the ridiculousness of her comment would silence him.

Malfoy did shut up, thank Morgana, but all of their classmates gasped loudly and then began murmuring. She didn't try to catch what they were saying, because it would probably only make her headache worse.

"You would let me brush your hair?" There was a quality, or tone, perhaps, to Malfoy's voice that she had never heard before.

She peeked out from beneath one eyelid as she leaned against the dungeon wall; his face was neutral. She couldn't remember him ever staring at her with such utter neutrality. "No." A flash of what appeared to be hurt flitted through his gray eyes, before vanishing. A sneer curled his lips, and she decided to head him off before he could dive back into the ludicrous series of insults that always seemed to rest on the tip of his tongue. "You would no doubt pull it. My head already hurts enough, thank you very much."

The sneer died a quick death as blankness smothered his face like an invisible mural. "Let me make sure I heard you correctly, Potter," he said very carefully, as if he were attempting to weave through a maze of erratic Bludgers on a Comet 360. "Your only objection to having your hair brushed by me is that you think I would pull it."

Hadara rolled her head to the side and pressed her cheek against the cold stone wall; it helped a little, but not much. "Yeah, I suppose so." She shrugged, wondering why he seemed so intent on her silly comment. It's not like Malfoy would actually want to brush her hair or anything. He hated her.

Her classmates were silent, even Ron and Hermione, much to her amazement. That was why it was so easy to hear the sound of Malfoy's footsteps as he walked closer to her. It seemed foolish to think that she could identify someone just by the sound of shoes striking stone, but she would recognize his anywhere. He had followed her for years, as she had followed him, and Draco Malfoy's footsteps rang with uncertain authority—as if he desperately knew what he wanted and was worthy of, but didn't think he would ever achieve it. Perhaps being the son and heir of Lucius Malfoy was a burden he wouldn't grow into for a long time to come.

She tilted her head when something sounded off, and was forced to open her eyes to confirm her suspicions. It was, indeed, Malfoy approaching her. But his footsteps were different now. They suddenly sang of complete confidence, with an edge of what she might be tempted to call victory.

But why?

Hadara glanced up at him from under her eyelashes as he halted before her. She missed the days when they were the same height; now he had at least six inches on her, and she was ever having to look up at him.

"And if I said I wouldn't pull your hair?" asked Malfoy.

Really? He was still going on about her blasted hair? It was almost a scream in her head. She flinched and began massaging her temple, but it didn't help much. If this kept up, she would need to visit Pomfrey for a headache reliever potion. "And why should I believe you?" she asked, deciding to play along for the hell of it. He would get bored of this newest game soon enough.

Malfoy was almost unnervingly intent as he stared at her. "If I gave my word not to pull it, would you let me brush it?"

Hadara realized, much to her disbelief, that she would. For all of Malfoy's faults and character defects, she knew he would never break his word once given; it was, after all, a matter of pureblood honor. Merlin forbid anyone should question a Malfoy's honor. "Would you want to?" she whispered.

A heated glance that made his gray eyes molten pewter appeared and vanished so rapidly that she must have imagined it. "Yes," he purred.

Blinking, Hadara cast a cooling charm on her left hand and then placed it against her forehead. That actually helped a bit. The throbbing lessened. She breathed a sigh of relief and then returned her attention to Malfoy. He was just . . . standing patiently before her, as if awaiting some grand announcement. It made no sense. Malfoy wasn't patient, ever. His silence, along with everyone else's, made it seem like this was a _big deal_. But Hadara couldn't understand why that would be.

Tired of whatever this new game was, Hadara decided to call his bluff and end it. "Fine then. If you give your word not to pull it, or tug it, or cut it (although I wouldn't mind that too much), or intentionally knot it up, or change the color of it, or in any other wise jinx, hex, or curse my hair, you may brush it."

A loud choking sound came from her right, and Hadara glanced over to see that Ron's face was as red as his hair. He was staring at her as if she had just declared a passionate desire to seduce Snape. Hermione, to his right, was gaping at Hadara as if she had just let loose Fiendfyre in the Library of Alexandria. To Ron's left, Neville looked like someone had just dissected Trevor in front of him.

Malfoy leaned down, intruding upon her personal space to an alarming degree, and whispered against her ear, lips brushing her emerald earring, "I, Draco Lucius Malfoy, swear on my honor that I will never intentionally damage or alter Lady Hadara Potter's hair. I also swear that I will never intentionally pull it, or cause her pain through use of it in any manner."

_Lady_ Hadara Potter? What was he playing at now?

Hadara shivered as his magic brushed against her, sealing the vow in place. The feel of his magic against her caused the pain in her head to fade several degrees, so that it was nothing more than a nuisance. McGonagall couldn't have possibly been right, could she? Did they really have complementary magic?

A massive wooden door slammed back against the stone wall, causing several of the students to jump as Snape made his entrance. He had one supercilious eyebrow cocked as he sneered out at the lot of them. However, he paused and then blinked furiously when his gaze landed on her and Malfoy.

"Mr. Malfoy, what is the meaning of this?" A barely visible fury in his obsidian eyes frightened Hadara. Snape's rage was usually cold, like the snake he was; she couldn't imagine how vicious it would be if his temper ran hot.

Malfoy turned his head, so that his cheek was resting against hers. If Snape hadn't been staring so creepily at them, she would have shoved Malfoy away. But his presence was somehow calming in the face of Snape's disdain. Malfoy's arms were on either side of her body as he leaned against the wall, shielding her from the majority of their observers. She was . . . grateful for the protection, minor though it may be, and annoyed at that feeling of gratitude. She was a bloody Gryffindor, and she could take care of herself!

"I'm afraid you'll have to excuse Lady Hadara and I from Potions today, Professor. We have something to take care of," Malfoy said. She felt his cheek caress hers as he smirked smugly at their audience.

Snape's eyes narrowed to slits. "What?"

"We'll make up the assignment tomorrow afternoon during our free time. Until then." Malfoy nodded regally and slid his arm around her waist. She allowed him to guide her back down the corridor, her mind a haze of shock, confusion, and disbelief.

What in Morgana's name was going on?

If Malfoy hadn't held her so firmly against his side, she surely would have stumbled and fallen flat on her face. She was so lost inside her head, trying to unravel the conversation that had led up to Malfoy acting like an actual _gentleman_, that she paid no attention to where they were going until she saw the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy. He released her only long enough to pace three times, and then encircled her waist again when a carved cherry wood door appeared in the previously blank wall.

Hadara gasped at the sight that met her eyes. The room was so rich, so elegant, with dainty medieval furniture—clearly meant for a woman of high station, like a princess or queen. "Where are we?" she asked. When she had been little and dreamed of being saved from her horrible relatives by a prince, he always took her away to a castle, gave her a pretty room like this, and then married her and made her his princess. This room was her childhood fantasy made into reality.

"It's a replica of the dressing room in the Heiress Malfoy suite," Malfoy replied as he led her to a chair with a round seat and a foot-high back; the constellation Draco was carved into the back, and the legs were unicorns rampant.

The Heiress Malfoy suite? "You have a little sister?"

Malfoy smiled with genuine amusement. "No."

Before she could ask him to clarify, a flicker of movement caught her attention. Hadara twisted around to see that she was sitting before a grand mirror with a crystal frame. It was aged, silver veins tracing across the outermost foot in a meandering pattern. Her breath caught in her throat as she stared at their reflections; Malfoy was standing behind her, a delighted grin on his face as he stared down at her. It eerily mirrored a painting she had seen of her Grandfather Charlus and Grandmother Dorea, and not just because people said she was a near replica of the infamous Dorea Black, who had had wizards fighting for her hand since she turned thirteen. If Hadara didn't have her mother's emerald eyes, people would have likely speculated (more than they already did) that she was her grandmother reincarnated.

The fine blonde hair on her head—identical to Dorea's, and Narcissa Malfoy's, now that she thought of it—complemented Malfoy's, or perhaps his complemented hers. As she stared into the mirror, she was struck by a thought and spoke aloud without realizing it. "I wonder if there's a painting of your parents in Malfoy Manor that looks just like this."

Malfoy nodded, and then winked at her. "There is, indeed. A very similar one will be joining it soon."

Hadara tilted her head as she pondered that. Why would Malfoy tell her that his parents were having another portrait of themselves painted? Why would she care? What relevance did it have? He never said anything without a reason, even when insulting her. Every word that came out of his mouth was calculated.

Before she could even think of a response, his hands slid over her shoulders, up her neck, and into her hair. His fingers shook as he tenderly and diligently removed pin after pin from her hair and placed them on the nearby dressing table. With each pin removed, his hands trembled a little more. The turn of his lip and emotions in his eyes were indescribable; she didn't understand them. Whatever solemn mask, or emotionless mask, or mask of hatred that he normally wore around her was gone. She had no point of reference for his visage now, and that unsettled her.

Why had he looked hurt when she first said he couldn't brush her hair? Why had he been willing to swear a vow just to do so? Why had Neville been so sad? Ron so horrified? Hermione so flummoxed? Why had everyone made it seem like such a _big deal_? Hadara suddenly remembered the tears in Pansy Parkinson's eyes as Malfoy led her back down the hallway and away from the classroom. Parkinson was hard as nails. There was no way that she would cry over Malfoy brushing Hadara's hair, was there?

"Malfoy—"

"Draco," he corrected instantly, fingers pausing in their quest to find the next pin that kept her hair in an elegant series of twists on her head. It was the only nice thing Aunt Petunia had ever done for her—teaching her to style her hair.

Hadara blinked in disbelief. Had she fallen into an alternate universe or something? "Seriously?"

"I'm deadly serious. Call me Draco," he said. If she had been more fanciful than the average girl, she would have imagined it held a hint of compulsion. But even if it did, it wouldn't have mattered, would it? After all, Hadara Potter was immune to the Imperius Curse. What power could the request of one wizard possibly have?

"Draco"—he shivered behind her—"why did Parkinson look like she was going to cry? You're just going to brush my hair. Wouldn't you brush hers if she asked?"

"No!" he spat. And then he paled, worse than the night they had stumbled across Voldemort drinking the blood of a unicorn when they were only eleven years old. Only, he didn't turn around and flee this time; he stood his ground. Malfoy's fingers curled around the large, curved pin in the middle of her hair—the only one left—but he didn't withdraw it. "You asked me to brush your hair, and you don't know what it means?" There was a thick quality to his words, as if he were speaking from underwater, or through a knot of tears.

He looked . . . devastated.

The air felt heavy in the room, and it took a great deal of willpower to sit still. She wasn't sure that she should ask, but she had to know what had put that look on his face, when nothing else ever had—not even Lucius's brief stint in Azkaban after the battle in the Department of Mysteries. "Draco, what does it mean?"

His eyes, which resembled the palest of hoarfrost, tore away from her own in the mirror and locked on his hand, which still held the final pin. Indecision warred on his face and, for a moment, she thought he would rip the pin out. Instead, he hung his head and whispered, "Only a lady's family, fiancé, or lord may see her hair down and brush it."

Hadara inhaled so quickly that her lungs burned. His words echoed repeatedly through her head, stunning her into silence. That meant—that meant—_that meant_— Merlin and Morgana! She had accidentally proposed to Malfoy, and _he had accepted_. Malfoy had thought she was asking him to be her lord, and she had been joking to get him to shut up. How thoughtlessly cruel!

The hurt when she had first said 'no' made sense. And she was now sure that the heat in his eyes hadn't been imagined in the least. Merlin, that similar portrait he was talking about was to be of him and her! And the Heiress Malfoy suite . . . if he was Heir Malfoy, would that make this his future bride's dressing room?

"But you hate me," she whispered, sounding like a small child.

"No!" His head snapped up so fast she feared he might've hurt himself. "I don't hate you. Merlin, Hadara, I could never hate you. Can't you feel it?" The familiar magical buzz of being around Malfoy was there, as always. McGonagall's earlier words were starting to make sense on too many levels. If their magic was truly complementary, then—hadn't Lavender and Parvati been muttering about complementary magic and true love and soul mates or some such rubbish in fourth year?

His visage twisted in a mask of loathing. "I hate Weasley! He's always there at your side, smirking at me, taunting me with the fact that despite everything . . . despite our magic . . . despite my feelings . . ." He ducked his head so that she couldn't see his face. "You chose him."

It felt like her reality had been tipped upside-down and shaken vigorously as the past seven years replayed exceedingly quickly from Malfoy's perspective. It made sense now: Ron's countless glares at the Slytherin table for no apparent reason, and all those times he put his hand on her shoulder or swung an arm around her waist when Malfoy was in sight, or the fact that he still hadn't asked Hermione out, even though Hermione's feelings for him were obvious enough that even he couldn't miss them.

Hadara wrinkled her nose. "He's like an annoying and overeager little brother I need to protect. You couldn't pay me to go out with Ron."

His hand curled in her hair around the pin, nails tenderly scraping her scalp. "Do you mean that?"

She nodded carefully. "I do. Kissing him would be gross. My grandmother and godfather might have been Blacks, but the whole incest thing creeps me out, even if we aren't technically brother and sister; it would still feel like it."

"My mother's a Black!" he declared, as if seeking to defend her honor.

"I know. But she had the good taste to marry your father, not her cousins," Hadara countered absently. Those three words 'despite my feelings' kept clamoring for attention, shunting her other thoughts off into a barren wasteland. She wanted to ask for clarification, but that was pretty pointless now, wasn't it? He had accepted her unwitting proposal in front of their classmates, had blown off Snape, and had brought her to a replica of his future wife's chambers. The constellation he was named after was engraved into the back of the chair she was currently sitting on.

What could that be, if not love?

Malfoy wasn't the type of wizard who would display insipid pettiness and instigate a vendetta that lasted over half a decade just because he sort of, maybe, a little bit, fancied her.

"That's true," he replied, chin rising so that their eyes met in the mirror.

For a second there, she forgot her previous statement and thought he had read her mind and agreed with her. So the question was: how did she feel about all this? About him?

Her thoughts returned to the previous summer, which had been the worst yet. She had constantly wished for Malfoy's presence, so—she had thought at the time—she would have someone to fight with, someone to make her feel alive, someone who would be more than willing to put her horrible relatives in their place. But now . . . now she couldn't help but wonder if she had missed the feel of his magic against her own—how tenderly it caressed her, and how safe she felt when she was within its reach.

Hadara lifted one hand and set it atop Malfoy's in her hair. The moment she touched him, he flinched, as if he just knew she was going to pull his hand away from her blonde tresses and reinsert the pins one after the other while he watched. She folded her hand around his, both of them trembling at the touch. And then, watching his eyes in the mirror, slowly pulled his hand free of her hair—with the final pin still in his grasp.

Stunned awe overwhelmed his features as her hair tumbled down, unraveling until it pooled on the floor like a moonlit waterfall. "Morgana." Malfoy kept staring at it, then the pin, then her hair, then the pin, as if he couldn't comprehend what she had just done. "It's stunning, Hadara. Absolutely stunning. Merlin, you're beautiful."

Hadara blushed as he dropped the pin on the floor and then mindlessly started playing with her hair. His fingers danced through the silken tresses, stroking and caressing. He buried his face in it and inhaled deeply, then laughed loudly like a carefree child.

His smile was beatific. He was almost unbearably happy.

It was nigh impossible for her to believe that she could make such a difference in his demeanor.

When he settled down to reverently petting it, she turned her head and beamed up at him. "I believe, my lord, that you promised to brush my hair."

Malfoy mouthed the words 'my lord' over and over as he stared at her, as if she had spoken a foreign language he had never heard before. Then the heat was back in his eyes, accompanied by a healthy dose of possessiveness. He bent down until his face was only an inch from hers, his breath ghosting across her lips. "As you wish, my lady."

Hadara leaned forward and closed her eyes, and relished in the sensation of his velvety lips against hers. Truly, this was the perfect first kiss: gentle and unrushed. When she ended the kiss, she knew her face was pink with heat. She grabbed one of his hands, her whole body trembling as she tried to force the necessary words past the tangle of emotions in her throat. Her voice wobbled when she finally whispered, "You swore you wouldn't hurt me."

The tightening of his grip let Hadara know that Malfoy knew she was talking about a lot more than just brushing her hair.

She had never heard words sound more true than the ones Draco Malfoy spoke to her then, in the mimicry of her future chambers. "I would die first."

Hadara carefully gathered her hair off the floor, until all of it lay in a haphazard puddle across her palms. "Then I give myself into your hands, Draco," she said solemnly as she passed her hair to him, a symbolic gesture of her true intent.

"They will offer only protection and pleasure," he promised as he accepted it. After kissing her hair and rubbing his cheek against it, he casually summoned what looked like a loom from across the room. After skillfully draping her hair over it, Malfoy picked up the bejeweled hairbrush that was resting on the dressing table. She couldn't help but sigh and close her eyes in delight when he began brushing her hair, tenderly easing it through the tresses without trouble.

She suspected the protection in his hands had long since been hers in one manner or another. Now, though, she would wallow in the pleasure they could provide.

"There was never another," she confessed. The hairbrush paused. "Ron aside, for obvious reasons, there was no one else. Just you." She wanted him to know that she hadn't been free with her lips or body, as many witches were. The love on her parents' faces in the photo album Hagrid had given her had long since convinced her that kisses were for lasting love only—not passing fancies, boredom, or experimentation.

There was a gritty quality to his voice as he said, "Thank you." When the hairbrush began moving again, he whispered, "All mine."

Hadara laughed and then rolled her eyes. He was going to be a possessive little prick; she could already tell. He sounded almost insufferably pleased with himself. But as she viewed his joyful face in the mirror, she couldn't find it in herself to destroy his pleasure. She was his, after all.

So, for today only, Hadara would tolerate his conceited gloating. Tomorrow, she would remind him exactly who had had the courage to propose and end his suffering


	13. The Lady He Loved

**Title: **The Lady He Loved

**Pairings:** Harry Potter/Dianthe Malfoy

**Warnings:** genderbend, and non-detailed implied rape (from centuries past).

* * *

Harry Potter heard the spell and saw it leave Theodore Nott's wand, but he was still unable to dodge it. The jinx brushed the edge of his knee and sent him stumbling to the stone floor as he tripped over his own feet. His hands smarted, but he could tell by the feel alone that they weren't bleeding. Sniggers came from the nearest table in the library; he glanced right to see a group of Slytherins and Ravenclaws staring at him with cruel amusement.

"Haven't learned to walk yet, Potter?" Nott taunted.

"Sod off," muttered Harry.

Instead of retorting, Nott's smirk just widened as he leaned back in his seat and twirled his quill between his fingers. Nott's companions followed his example, like shadows. Before Harry could ask what was so entertaining—because it wasn't like Nott had never hit him with the tripping jinx before—Harry noticed one of the Ravenclaw girls was blushing and pointing to his left.

Turning, Harry felt his face catch on fire as he realized that he was kneeling before a chair that Lady Dianthe Malfoy was sitting on as she studied. Only, she wasn't revising anymore; she was peering down at him from under her golden eyelashes, gray eyes flashing with shock and something else she hid too quickly for him to recognize.

Now the students' amusement made sense. Harry was mortified.

Kneeling in front of a pureblood maiden was tantamount to declaring an unavoidable preference and deep love. It was, essentially, asking for a witch's hand in bonding by placing himself at her feet and silently announcing that he would always place her above himself. That she was worthy of his love, respect, protection, and more. Right now, he was unintentionally stating to all who knew the old customs that he felt Dianthe was worthy of reverence.

Harry could have leapt to his feet and fled the room, which likely would have been his godfather's advice (because Sirius didn't believe in settling down before a wizard had lived a little). However, his godfather had raised him properly, teaching him the Potter family traditions and customs after his parents' deaths, and he wouldn't dishonor his heritage—especially not when he would inherit the Potter Lordship when he graduated.

Closing his eyes and wishing the floor would swallow him whole, Harry waited for the inevitable humiliation of rejection. He had offended Dianthe on the Hogwarts Express before first year by sitting with Ron Weasley—the Malfoys and Weasleys were blood feuding, still; he hadn't known that at the time—and she had reviled him ever since.

Due to their rivalry, Dianthe would likely see this as a perfect chance for revenge. In fact, he wouldn't even be able to blame her for his embarrassment when she rejected him. Nott was the one who had tripped him, after all. The scrawny git was always trying to make Harry look like a fool when Dianthe was around. Harry suspected that Nott was hoping to win her—

Harry sucked in a breath when fingers carded through his hair, which caused everyone who had been sniggering at him to gasp. He glanced up to verify that Dianthe's hand was in his hair. Yes, it was.

She had just agreed to bond with him. That was impossible!

A quill snapped. Harry glanced to his right to see a broken peregrine feather in Nott's hand. Black ink was splattered all over his hand and dripping from his sleeve. The essay he had been writing, which curled down to the floor, bore splotches and streaks; it was ruined. And it was also for Snape. _Serves you right_, Harry thought. The git had been driving him mental all year.

"Potter!" spat Nott. The hatred on his face was reminiscent of the way Voldemort glared at Harry when he was being particularly aggravating.

Harry grinned and tilted his head, sighing as the action forced Dianthe's fingers deeper into his hair. "Yes, Nott?" He placed a special emphasis on Nott's name, as if to say: You're _not_ going to possess her. She's _not_ going to be yours. You'll _not_ taste her lips—ever. He closed his eyes as a vision of him holding Dianthe to his chest and kissing her lips wove itself through his mind. Harry had lost count of how many times he had fantasized claiming her as his own.

Nott drew his arm back, jagged peregrine quill pointed at Harry. He was liable to stand and attack Harry at any moment, piercing Harry through the eye before constricting his neck until Harry's throat was crushed. "Potter, I swear I'll . . ." Nott's jaw clenched, a suitable threat not readily available.

"Voldemort couldn't defeat me, Nott. What makes you think that you could hurt—?"

"Stop it," said Dianthe, as her pinky finger brushed the shell of Harry's ear.

_I win_, Harry rejoiced as Nott's mouth clamped shut.

"Harry, mate, what's going on? You're lat—" Ron rounded the bookcase, speaking much too loudly for a library. He came to a sudden stop and gaped at Harry, before flushing rubicund. "What in the bloody hell is going on?" Ron hollered.

"What does it look like?" Pansy Parkinson asked snidely. "Heir Potter and Dianthe just got engaged. Obviously. You're a pureblood, despite your family name. You should know that."

This was the part where Harry would always chime in to defend his friend, but he didn't this time, because he was still shocked senseless that Dianthe had agreed to be his wife. He had developed feelings for her when he was thirteen, and they had only flourished over the intervening years. However, he had never planned to tell her, because he had been absolutely sure that she _loathed_ him. Pining after someone he could never have hurt badly enough; he hadn't intended to tell her and have his love cast aside as rubbish.

Dianthe's fingernails scraped across his scalp and Harry shivered.

"Tell me she's lying, mate! You can't have picked Malfoy!"

Dianthe's expression shuttered, like she expected Harry to pull away from her and say, "I can't believe you fell for it! I don't want you. How could I ever care for _you_?"

Ron fumed. "W-what about my sister?"

"What about her?" Harry asked without thinking. What was Ron on about now? Ginny was one of the guys; she was like a little brother who occasionally cross-dressed.

"Ginny loves you!" exclaimed Ron. If he kept talking at that volume, Madam Pince would kick him out of the library in the next ten seconds.

She did? Harry hadn't seen that coming at all! Ginny hung out with guys most of the time, and she didn't wear make-up (except when she wore dresses, which was plain weird and not like her). She punched people and burped and wasn't the least bit like a lady. He didn't want someone who would let other men put their arm around her shoulders, or pick her up and spin her around. He was an only child, despite his younger cousins, and Sirius had informed him multiple times that Potters could have whatever they wanted and never needed to share. And while he had learned to share, regardless, he didn't like the thought of anyone else touching _his_ wife.

After all the stories (and memories) Sirius had shared about his parents, James and Lily, Harry had decided that he wanted to bond with a lady. His mother was fierce and spirited, but she was well-mannered and kind. She was beautiful, and it was easy to imagine his father falling in love with her.

As Harry had fallen for Dianthe.

But whereas his father had possessed the courage to relentlessly pursue his mother, accepting refutations one after the other, Harry had stayed silent. His heart wasn't as strong as his father's; he wouldn't have been able to bear the pain of Dianthe repeatedly brushing him off after he had confessed. One stab at his love would have wounded too deeply for him to ever mention it again.

"That's unfortunate," said Dianthe. "Because she can't have him."

Ron yanked his wand from his pocket and pointed it at Dianthe. "I don't know what you've done to him, Malfoy, but I won't let you get away with it."

Harry stood up, regretting the loss of her touch, and faced Ron. His arms were folded across his chest as he twirled his wand between his fingers and blocked Dianthe from view. "Don't threaten her."

"You can't be serious, mate! She's cursed you. Or gave you a love potion, or something! Let me take you to Madam Pomfrey. She'll fix you," said Ron. He sneered at the nearby Slytherins. "Let's get out of here before we catch their cowardice."

"I know you don't have a high opinion of me, Weasel, but I'm not a thief. Love potions are for the pathetic and the likes of Granger." Dianthe leaned around Harry, a sneer on her face and eyes spitting molten pewter. "I assure you that I've never found a use for them."

"Like I'll take your word for it," Ron said. "You Slytherins are nothing but liars!"

Dianthe's visage turned glacial at the insult. It was a low blow, and Harry didn't appreciate it in the least. Just because someone was sorted into Slytherin didn't mean they weren't trustworthy. Pettigrew had been a Gryffindor, after all. And Harry, himself, had been considered for Slytherin. He always kept his word, thank you very much.

"Besides," Ron said, with a sneer worthy of Snape, "all Malfoys are lying cheats."

"That's enough," Harry stated before gritting his teeth. He had known this would happen if Dianthe ever gave him the time of day. He had known Ron would throw a tantrum, act like a prat, and that he would probably lose his best friend.

Ron blinked and gaped. "You're not siding with her. She's a _Malfoy_!"

Harry sighed and ran a calloused hand down his face. So it would come down to this. He had hoped Ron would be mature about it, but had known better than to expect a positive reaction. In all his daydreams and fantasies of Dianthe returning his feelings, Ron had never supported his decision. It seemed that even his imagination hadn't been able to invent such an improbable scenario.

Sirius had stood by Harry's father for seven years as he fought for the girl of his dreams . . . and Ron wouldn't support Harry for one minute. It hurt to think that their friendship was so brittle, but he couldn't deny the truth that was staring him right in the face. If he had to choose between his best friend of six years and the woman he loved—he'd pick Dianthe.

"Yes, I am," said Harry. A silent resignation was within him, an acknowledgement that everything was changing.

Ron's hand trembled as he pointed at Dianthe. "You did something to him! Tell me what, right now, or I'll—"

"Mr. Weasley, this is a library!" Madam Pince hissed. "Be quiet or remove yourself immediately."

"Let's go, mate," said Ron as he beckoned. "I'll take you to Pomfrey and we'll get this sorted out." His voice shook as he beseeched Harry to follow him.

"You're unbelievably thick, Weasley," Pansy said as she examined her fingernails for any imperfections. "The Malfoys and Weasleys are blood feuding. Heir Potter is engaged to Dianthe. Ergo, unless your family makes recompense with the Malfoys for the disgusting crime they committed, all ties between you and Heir Potter will be broken."

"Your mother was a Prewett. You should already know these things," Blaise said. He yawned, bored by the entire matter.

"Our disgusting crime?" Ron was flabbergasted. "It was Malfoy's family—"

"Actually," said Harry, knowing Ron would probably never forgive him for this, "it was your family's fault." He had researched the matter in third year, when he started having feelings for Dianthe and wanted to know why she hated him so much for sitting with Ron on the train.

"And I bet she told you that, huh?" asked Ron. He glared at Dianthe, who was still peeking around Harry, face stiff. "It's a lie, Harry. You _know_ my family. It's the Malfoys' fault. All of it!"

"No, it's not." Harry sighed and fought a wince. This would cost him his best friend, but Sirius had insisted that Potters were honorable to the letter, unable to let injustice go unanswered. Dianthe deserved no blame, whatsoever, in the matter. "I searched the records. The Noble and Most Ancient House of Malfoy lodged a blood feud over seven centuries ago for crimes committed against them. Magic wouldn't have accepted it if the accusations weren't true."

"You can't be serious, Harry."

"Yes, I am. Deadly serious."

Ron's many times great-grandfather had broken honor in the vilest manner. The House of Weasley was the Noble and Most Ancient House of Malfoy's First Vassal at the time, and the Head of the Family was Bedivere Weasley. Bedivere, who was charged with protecting Lady Adelaide Malfoy—the eldest daughter—wandered off for an afternoon frolic with a Muggle, leaving her unguarded. Three wizards from an enemy family brutally assaulted Lady Adelaide in his absence. The thought alone made Harry sick to his stomach. No woman deserved that fate.

After what Lady Adelaide had already endured . . . he couldn't blame the Malfoys for their undying hatred for all things Weasley and Muggle.

Dianthe would not suffer that fate; Harry would gladly protect and honor her his entire life. _Hmm, perhaps I should get Nott a gift for accidentally causing this whole mess and giving me a chance._

"If you stay here with her"—Ron gritted his teeth and pointed at Dianthe threateningly—"we're through, mate. Done. Finished. Do you hear? I'll never forgive you if you pick her over my sister."

Harry nodded, and then turned and offered his hand to Dianthe. "Would you like to go for a walk, my lady?"

A tender and victorious smile curled her lips. "Very much." Dianthe placed her hand in his and then stood, grinning as she set her arm atop his.

"Lady Dianthe," Nott murmured, one hand held out, begging her to turn away from Harry. She sighed and shook her head, much to Harry's relief.

Harry glowered at Nott for trying to change her mind and steal her away, and then mouthed his triumphant conquest. _She's not yours. She's mine_.

"Harry? Mate?"

Ron goggled at them as they walked around him and out of the library. Perhaps he had thought his threat would bring Harry to heel, but that wasn't the case. Potters were famous for loving young and to immense proportions. Harry wouldn't chance losing or offending Dianthe—not when she was his fiancée, and not when he had previously believed she would never return his affections.

The Gryffindor Quidditch team was in the hallway outside the library, chatting in their practice robes. "Ready for practice, Harry?" Dean asked as he looked away from Ginny and offered Harry's Firebolt to him.

Harry took the Firebolt, got a brilliant idea, and then said, "Practice is canceled for the day. We'll do it tomorrow morning, instead. Pass the word along."

"What? Why?" asked Ginny. She stared at Dianthe like she had never seen her before, as if Dianthe were a threat that had Apparated through blood wards to hold a dagger to her jugular.

"Because my fiancé and I have matters to discuss," Dianthe purred. Harry shivered and grinned; everything about Dianthe was alluring. The sight of her golden hair taunted him, and he longed to bury his hands in it. He wanted her alabaster complexion to turn pink with passion, and her voice to turn breathy with desire. He longed to see her lips swollen and parted from his kisses, her pupils dilated. He wanted to feel her magic—heady and powerful—as it twined with his.

As his teammates stammered and gawked, he led Dianthe away and outside the school. Once they were on the steps, he mounted the Firebolt and then grinned. "Care to go flying with me, my lady?" He wanted an excuse, any excuse, to hold her in his arms. Now that they were engaged, he had privileges he wouldn't have had if they were only courting—assuming Lucius would have ever allowed Harry to court her. Now he didn't have to worry about any of that.

Dianthe had chosen him, and that was all that mattered.

Instead of swinging one leg over the broom, as he had always seen her do, Dianthe sat sidesaddle, perching on his thighs. Harry wrapped his left arm around her possessively, leaving his right hand free for steering, and pushed off from the ground. He clutched her and buried his nose against her hair, inhaling her natural fragrance; it was divine, which was fitting, since her name meant 'flower of the gods'.

When they had leveled out and were flying over the lake, Dianthe said, "I gave you time to get up and leave."

She had intentionally offered him a chance to escape? Why? If he had left, it would have been highly insulting for her. "I didn't take it."

"Why?" Dianthe whispered.

"Why did you give me a chance to get up and leave?" Harry countered.

Dianthe sighed and leaned her head against his chest. She was quiet for so long that he didn't think she would ever give him an answer. Then, almost inaudibly, she said, "Because I love you too much to trap you into a bonding." Her voice fluctuated as if it took all the courage she possessed to tell him the truth.

Harry kissed her neck. "Because I've wanted you to be my lady since I was thirteen," said Harry, answering her query. "I would never dishonor you by getting up and leaving, especially in front of witnesses. You are worthy of love and reverence." He breathed a sigh of relief when she relaxed against him further. "I thought you were going to break my heart."

"And I thought you would break mine," Dianthe replied. Her hands seized his forearm. "You never sent me a courtship offer." There was a wealth of heartbreak in her voice. "I waited for one all last summer, but it never came."

Last summer had been the worst. Harry had written an offer for her hand every single day, but he never sent any of them. "Until half an hour ago, I was sure that you would reject them, and me. I just c-couldn't . . ." His chest burned with the remembered ache. He had spent months wondering who was taking her out on marriage dates, boycotting _the Daily Prophet_ for fear her engagement would be headline news with each new day.

"Them?" queried Dianthe, one eyebrow raised.

Harry flushed. "I might have written more than one." Each one started with _To_ _My Dearest Lady Dianthe Malfoy_ and ended with _Your Devoted Servant, Heir Harry Potter_.

"But they were all for me," Dianthe demanded, a hint of insecurity in her voice. She stiffened against him, and he hated it. It placed more distance between them, and there had always been too much of that for his tastes.

"Most definitely," Harry assured her. Sirius had teased him mercilessly for weeks, claiming he was moping about the manor. He hadn't even entertained the thought of offering for someone else; courting was serious business for a Potter. He wouldn't dare offer for anyone while he still loved Dianthe. It wouldn't be fair to him, or his second choice. Because, through no fault of her own, whatever witch he might have chosen to court would not have been Dianthe. Therefore, inevitably, she would have been inadequate in his eyes.

Dianthe melted back against him, tension evaporating from her body. "Good." She traced her nails across his forearm. "What are you doing on the 29 of June?"

"Er . . ." That date sounded familiar. Why was that? Oh! "Graduating from Hogwarts," Harry replied.

"Wrong!"

Harry blinked and checked his mental calendar again. "No, I'm sure we graduate on June 29."

Dianthe sniggered. "So we do, but that's not why you'll remember it."

"Oh?" He craned his neck so that he could see her face. She was smiling gaily, and her eyes were sparkling like silver starlight. Harry thanked Merlin that he hadn't said that aloud; if Sirius knew he thought in such fanciful terms, he would never hear the end of it. "Why will I remember it, then?"

"Because it will be the anniversary of our bonding," said Dianthe. She released his forearm and wrapped her arms around his neck before pulling him down and kissing him. It was soft and heated, nothing like he had imagined, and even more right because of it. His arms were tighter than a corset as he embraced her and steered the broom with his knees.

Dianthe withdrew and licked Harry's bottom lip. Sweet, sweet torture. "I'll never forgive you if you forget our anniversary. Two major events in one day should be enough of a reminder," she warned him.

June 29 was almost three weeks away. There was no chance that he would ever forget almost a month of sweet suffering—not when it ended in him finally claiming the lady he loved.

Harry kissed along her neck. "Your father would kill me if he could see us now."

"No, he wouldn't," Dianthe replied as she tilted her head to allow him better access. "He knows you're nothing like the Weasleys, that you'd never allow harm to befall me—especially at your own hands. The Noble and Most Ancient House of Potter's honor is legendary."

"Mmm," he murmured against her skin, relishing in the shiver that racked her body.

"My mother, on the other hand, might decide she doesn't want grandchildren after all," Dianthe teased. She smirked up at him from beneath her eyelashes when he winced.

Narcissa Malfoy née Black—cousin to Sirius Black. The thought of any wizard holding Altaira Black, Sirius's only daughter, like this and kissing her neck would result in castration—courtesy of his godfather. He didn't even want to imagine what Dianthe's mother might be inspired to do, knowing as many Dark curses as she surely did.

"Joking, Harry. I'm just joking! What? You can't handle the threat?"

When Dianthe kissed him, he regretfully pulled away after a few seconds. "Thanks," he said wryly, "but I'd like to live to see our bonding."

Dianthe threw her head back and laughed. "All right, hero, take me back now. The Slytherins are going to think you absconded with me."

"I-I would never—" Harry's heart fluttered. He wouldn't let a single doubt enter her head; he was in this for life, not a romp by the lake. In three weeks, Harry's unattainable dream would become a reality. He steered them back toward Hogwarts in a daze.

When they landed, Dianthe dismounted and then shifted, a wicked smirk taunting him. "You've kept me waiting almost a year with your cowardice, Heir Potter. I expect to be worshipped."

Harry bit his tongue and stared. What on earth had possessed her to act like this: brave and forthright? It was a ferocious aphrodisiac. His Potter blood sang with _want_. "I won't disappoint you, my lady," he growled.

Dianthe bit her lip, before staring at the ground demurely. Harry adored the fact that she felt comfortable enough around him to drop her mask, and he didn't want her to regret it either.

He swung off the Firebolt and set it on the ground. Knowingly and willingly this time, he knelt before Lady Dianthe Malfoy. He chose his words carefully, because he wanted her to know that he would treat her well, respect her wishes, and never harm her. Dianthe would be his wife, Lady Potter, and she warranted everything his father had proffered his mother. "Let me treasure you."

"Treasure is a strong word. Are you sure you can live up to all it implies? I have high standards, Heir Potter. I'll order you to brush my hair every night, every morning, and whenever else I feel like it. I'll expect love, devotion, presents—lots of them, and kisses whenever I want them. I'll complain most vociferously when you make plans with friends, because Malfoys don't share anything. I'll likely overrule all the names you'll want to give our children. And, most importantly, I will murder every witch who tries to steal you away from me. Do you think you can handle me?" inquired Dianthe.

Harry chuckled and shook his head. "I don't think anyone can _handle_ you, my lady. But I want you anyway."

"Very well, then. I accept," Dianthe said as she fruitlessly attempted to smooth his hair. "I'd like one of those kisses now."

"Right now?" he asked.

She nodded and tugged on his hair. "Yes, right now."

"Are you sure, my lady?" Oh, this was going to be a wonderful adventure.

Dianthe's brow furrowed as she glared at him and yanked his hair. "Harry Potter, if you don't give me my kiss _right now_ I swear I'll—"

Just like his father, Harry had been lucky enough to capture living passion and fire, all wrapped up in the body of a beautiful and vivacious witch. Triumph beating through him, Harry stood and obeyed her command. Dianthe could save her threats for something else. He would be content claiming her lips for the rest of his very long life.


	14. Hunting the Blood Faerie

**Title:** Hunting the Blood Faerie

**Pairing:** Blaise Zabini/Hypatia Potter, James Potter/Lily Potter

**Warnings:** AU, genderbend, dark themes/thoughts, prejudice, sensuality, and violence.

* * *

Blaise Zabini lurked in the shadows of the alcove, tracking the Gryffindor upstart who had spent the past week staring longingly at Blaise's fiancée. The first minute or two, he had been amused. But now he wanted nothing more than to send the Muggle-born back to the ancient times so he could be burned at the stake. The whelp—Creevey the elder—had followed her for years from afar. That had been somewhat tolerable, as the boy had been a child. Now that the Creevey whelp was sixteen, and daring to get so close to Blaise's fiancée, he wouldn't keep his peace another day.

Strolling out of the alcove and into the corridor, Blaise stood with his legs apart, shoulders back, and wand in hand.

Creevey halted, and then tried to walk around him. Blaise stepped to the side and blocked his path. "What's your problem?" asked Creevey. He grabbed his own wand bravely, futilely.

"I don't have a problem, Muggle-born. _You_ have a problem," Blaise said.

Gritting his teeth, Creevey took one step forward and infringed upon Blaise's personal space. "Yeah? What's that?"

"Stalking my fiancée isn't the smartest decision to make, assuming you want to live to see your disgusting Muggle family again," Zabini sniped.

"Are you threatening me, Zabini?" Creevey scoffed, though he had retreated a step. "I'm not afraid of you."

"No, I'm not threatening you. I'm ordering you to back off." Blaise sneered when Creevey straightened his shoulders as if to square off against him in a duel. The little Gryffindor was even more foolish than he had thought. Everyone with a lick of sense knew what happened to men who tried to get too close to Lady Hypatia Potter. "You should be, though. Muggle-born, you should be very, very afraid."

Creevey snorted. "What are you going to do? Sick your dad on me, like Malfoy does? You're just a spoiled prince hiding in the shadow of a king." He laughed, cheeks twitching with mirth.

Blaise resisted the intense urge to thrust his wand through Creevey's eye. No one with the slightest hint of intelligence spoke about his father. Thirteen years later, he and his mother still hadn't made peace with what had happened. And to imply that he—Blaise Zabini—was anything at all like that pansy, Draco, made him chuckle darkly. It was broken and bitter, rough and jagged, causing Creevey to fall silent.

Draco's father spoiled him rotten. Blaise's father had been murdered by someone who desired his mother—Helen, the Lady Zabini. She had been named for Helen of Troy, and her story had been just as tragic. But unlike Helen of Troy, his mother hadn't been content to let men drag her where they willed. She married the man who murdered her true love, and then ensured he _tragically_ died before he could ever touch her.

Such a revenge was too simple for the likes of a Zabini, too pleasant, not nearly painful enough for the loss of true love and a sealed bonding. So his mother lured the murderers' allies away from their wives, their fiancées, their contracts, and then killed them one after the other, without letting any of them touch her.

People could mock his stepfathers all they wanted; he didn't care in the least. But no one dared to speak ill of Blaise's birth father. Not in his presence. Not in his mother's. Unless, of course, they courted death.

"How blind you are, little lion. How very, very blind. I'm nothing like Draco. I fight my own battles, and I always emerge the victor," Blaise said. How should he punish Creevey? Unfortunately, the Unforgivables would set off alarms in the Headmaster's Office. Oh, how Blaise dearly wished to Cruciate him.

"I don't believe you," said Creevey.

Blaise's laughter was malicious and raised the hair on his own arms. "Oh?" He grinned with vicious amusement and began circling Creevey. "And who do you suppose pushed McLaggen down seven flights of stairs? Who do you think poisoned Boot? Who cast the Blasting Curse point-blank at Diggory's ribcage? Who tampered with Flint's broom, ensuring his three-month stay at St. Mungo's? Who set fire to the Weasel's hair? Who was responsible for Pansy's near drowning?" he whispered, delighting in how pale Creevey's skin grew with each new revelation. "Why do you think Draco failed Potions last term? No one is safe from my wrath, Muggle-born. _No one_."

"Tia doesn't belong to you," Creevey muttered.

Blaise paused, unable to comprehend what had just happened. Surely the Muggle-born had not dared to speak her name. He could not have shortened her beautiful, fierce name to such an intimate, tasteless caress.

"I said Tia doesn't belong to you!" Creevey spat. "She could never love someone like you. You're a monster! You don't deserve her! I'll treat her right . . ."

Creevey's mouth was still flapping, but Blaise didn't hear a word escaping it. No one had ever dared to speak to him thusly. No one had ever made such assumptions or threats, and especially not to his face. Hypatia Potter had belonged to him since Blaise first saw her in Diagon Alley. He was five at the time and she was four. Her hair was the color of freshly spilled blood and her eyes were the color of Galleons.

It was common knowledge that her mother—Lily, the Lady Potter—was the result of an affair between the late Lord Prewett and Lady Urquhart. Due to the scandal, Lady Lily had been forced to live with Muggles during her childhood, in order to repent for her parents' sins. But as soon as Lady Lily was of Hogwarts age, her parents' families took turns fostering her. It was said that Heir Black almost killed Heir Prince to guarantee Heir Potter would win her hand, though details on the matter were sketchy at best.

At five, Blaise had marched up to Lord Potter and declared, "She's mine!"

Lord Potter had chuckled and patted his head. "Oh?"

Blaise had nodded once, fiercely, and then kissed her hand. "I'll kill anyone who tries to take her from me." His magic fluttered at the words.

Lord Potter had knelt on the cobblestones of Diagon Alley and stared at him for several minutes in silence. Blaise withstood the evaluation, expecting it. He knew he wouldn't be found unworthy. He was Blaise Zabini, after all. Lord Potter had clapped a hand on his shoulder and said, "Your father was a great man. I remember him saying almost the same thing to your mother's father when he was eight. Aren't you precocious."

"There's no point in waiting to claim what belongs to me. I don't want anyone else to think they have a chance. _She's_ _mine_."

Then Lord Potter had changed, his face taking on a dark cant; his eyes had shifted from hazel to molten gold. An impish, cruel light overtook him. When he next spoke, there were layers to his voice that hadn't been there before. "You'll protect her with your life."

"Yes," Blaise had instantly agreed.

"You'll be faithful."

He nodded. "On my honor, I swear it." Nothing else was acceptable. Even after his father's death, despite what others may think, his mother was eternally faithful to his father. She would never let another wizard touch her. Blaise knew he would be the same way. All he wanted was the little girl that looked like a faerie of blood and gold.

Lord Potter had stood, a pleased grin splitting his face. He had inclined his head to Blaise's mother and said, "I'll owl her contract this afternoon."

"We'll await it, Lord Potter," Helen replied gently. She had smiled down at Blaise then, pride beaming from her, and Blaise had stood even straighter under the light of her approval.

As the Potters walked away, escorting the bloody faerie between them, Blaise had called, "What's her name?"

Lady Potter had glanced over her shoulder, a secretive smile on her face, and whispered, voice sounding like wind chimes, "Lady Hypatia."

Blaise had tilted his head back to meet his mother's gaze, and she had smirked before whispering, "Most high. Supreme."

Inhaling deeply, Blaise blinked back the memory. This _Muggle-born_ had no right to say such things. Hypatia belonged to _him_, was his fiancée, and would soon be his bonded wife. His wrist stilled, and Blaise turned his gaze to his left arm; he didn't remember moving it. The tip of his wand was a deep violet, and Latin words perched on his tongue, having arrived there without conscious thought. His wand was aimed at Creevey, who lay on the floor trembling and crying. Blood seeped from countless wounds, staining the stones, and three ribs were protruding through his robes. His pupils were wide and not tracking motion anymore, and Blaise absently wondered if he had just committed murder for the first time.

"_Obliviate_," a musical voice said. Blaise spun around just as the spell slammed into Creevey.

"Hypatia," he breathed. His eyes devoured her form, both loving and hating that she had changed out of the shapeless school robes. Her current robes were fitted, corseted, white chiffon with gold stitching. Her sanguineous hair was a sharp contrast, drawing his attention as much as it ever had. As he stalked toward her, he wondered if he had been faerie-struck by her as a child. It would explain his obsessive need to make her his and his alone.

"You need to be more careful, Blaise. You might have been caught," Hypatia said, gaze trained on him as he approached her.

Blaise was just over six feet tall, and Hypatia was slightly taller than five feet in height. It was said, though few dared to speak of something so sacred aloud, that Magic had assumed a mortal form to birth the Lady Morgana. Magic wanted to give Merlin Emrys his heart's desire—a loyal and lovely soul mate—for his faithfulness. Magic had taken the image of Merlin's dream woman and created Lady Morgana. Since that day, every witch who possessed a personal blessing by Magic was slight and beautiful in nature—a destined companion for a wizard who had been faithful in serving Magic and obeying the laws, rites, and customs, no matter how ancient they may be.

Misfortune, death, and horrors befell all who sought to use such witches ill.

"There are no portraits in this corridor, Hypatia. I wasn't careless," Blaise countered. Her words warmed his soul. He loved that she fretted over his safety.

Hypatia sighed. "That's not the point. He's just a child."

"He's hardly a child. I can assure you, Hypatia, his thoughts were anything but innocent," Blaise hissed. Images and thoughts flooded his mind, and Blaise realized he must have unconsciously used Legilimency on Creevey and ripped through his mind.

"Oh? I find that hard to believe. He's like a puppy. What could he possibly have thought to make you angry enough to do this?" demanded Hypatia as she gestured at Creevey, whose wounds had finally stopped bleeding onto the floor.

"Shall I demonstrate?" Blaise inquired. Before she could respond, Blaise hooked his hands around the back of her thighs and lifted her into the air. She yelped and grabbed his shoulders for balance as he backed her into the alcove and against the nearest wall. Her supple, strong thighs locked around his waist, and Blaise bit his lip in an effort to control himself. "You were in this position, my love. Only you weren't wearing anything," he breathed against her ear.

Gasping, eyes wet with tears, Hypatia clung to Blaise. "I would never . . ." Her nails bit into his back. "You won't let him do that to me. I know you won't. Nor anyone else," she whispered as she buried her face against his neck.

"I will kill anyone who attempts to make that a reality," Blaise said before kissing her neck. "I will curse anyone who fantasizes about it." He nibbled her earlobe. "You're mine, my love."

"Get your hands off her! You—you—you dishonorable—"

"Hush, Cassiopeia. It's not what you think," Heir Eridanus Black said as he peered into the alcove at Blaise and Hypatia, before turning to scowl at Creevey's fallen form.

"No, I will not hush! Are you out of your mind?" She fisted her hand as if she would punch him, wrinkling the bit of parchment she held. "He's bloody well got her pinned to the wall, and she's crying!"

If Blaise had been anyone but himself, he might have flinched at the accusation and released Hypatia. As it was, he knew the truth. And Hypatia's nosy godsiblings weren't going to force him to part from her. Not when she was this shaken; he hadn't seen her cry since her younger brother was thrown from his Pegasus and almost died.

Eridanus rolled his eyes at his twin sister. "How do you think this played out, then? Heir Zabini accosted her, and then what? Creevey rushed to save her? Dueled valiantly for her honor?" He waved a dismissive hand at the prone Gryffindor.

"That creep?" she asked, staring down at her fellow Gryffindor. "Not likely." She kicked Creevey in the shins. "He tried to sneak into the Prefects' Bathroom last month to take pictures of Hypatia while she was bathing."

"What?" Eridanus yelled.

Hypatia paled and clutched Blaise more tightly, as if she would be physically sick without his support. She trembled against him like a child, her magic withdrawing to form a shield around her. Vulnerability wafted off her, and she stared at Cassiopeia in disbelief, as if she had never heard that before. Judging by the embarrassed chagrin on Cassiopeia's face that just might be the case.

"You should have told me," Blaise stated. Had Creevey been the only one? Were other wizards doing the same? The thought of that _Muggle-born_, or anyone for that matter, having a camera and being in Hypatia's presence while she bathed made him homicidal. Was nothing sacred anymore? Lord Salazar Slytherin had the right of it—those born of Muggles had no place in their world, especially not if this was how they would treat ladies in general, and particularly those blessed by Magic.

"I handled it," Cassiopeia replied, resembling a Black for the first time since Blaise had met her.

"How?" Eridanus asked.

Cassiopeia chuckled. "You don't want the details."

"I do," Hypatia said as she leaned back against the wall. She unhooked her legs from around Blaise's waist and slid to the floor, eyes dry and burning with an unholy light. "_I do_."

The smirk on Cassiopeia's face reminded Blaise of the last time he had seen Lord Black in the same room as Professor Snape. "Let's just say that whatever Creevey's desires and fantasies might have been, he never would have been able to _act_ on them. If you catch my meaning."

"The Impotence Curse is Dark Magic," Blaise said. The thought of Creevey being unable to perform at all filled him with a ferocious delight. Suffering rightly befell all who coveted his lady.

Cassiopeia smiled innocently. "But he's a Muggle-born, and I'm the Black Heiress. And Hypatia is the Potter Heiress. Name one law that would allow for a conviction in his favor."

"There aren't any," Eridanus replied.

"Precisely."

Hypatia went and gave her godsister a hug. "Have I mentioned lately how much I love you?"

Laughing, Cassiopeia said, "Just this morning, when I styled your hair. But I appreciate it all the same. And, of course, I love you too."

"Then why," Hypatia asked, voice frigid as an iceberg, "did you imply Blaise was forcing himself upon me?"

Satisfaction shone from Cassiopeia's haunted gray eyes. "Because I needed to know something."

"Oh?" Hypatia bit out. She traced her wand up her godsister's throat. "What's that?"

"I already knew Zabini was faerie-struck. He chose you when he was five, Hypatia. Your father and his mother signed the betrothal contract. You've been wearing the Zabini protection anklets since you were four. He's been cursing, hexing, and maiming people to protect you since you came to Hogwarts."

Blaise listened to each truth, wondering where Cassiopeia was heading with all these statements. Rumor said she was a Seer, like Cassandra of Troy. But as the daughter of Helen, Blaise wouldn't be ignorant and discount her words. The Blacks would have smothered the rumors if they weren't true. There would be a point to the offensive slight she had spoken earlier.

"And here you are, all grown up." Cassiopeia circled Hypatia, fingers skimming her shoulders. "You've been seventeen for months now, and not only aren't you bonded, but you haven't even kissed him yet." Hypatia flinched. "You haven't truly chosen him yet. I wanted to see if you would defend him. You did. Why?"

"Because . . ."

Blaise's gaze narrowed when Hypatia didn't finish her thought aloud. After all this time, after all he had done, after all he had offered, did _she_ not wish to belong to _him_? Was his love in vain?

"Why?" Cassiopeia demanded.

"Leave her alone," Eridanus said.

"Silence!" Cassiopeia's voice rang with authority. Her face was sharper, pointier, as if some mystical entity possessed her. "Why do you defy my will? Why do you not choose your chosen one? For truly, you are his. I have made it so."

Hypatia ducked her head and hunched her shoulders. Her answer was almost inaudible. "He doesn't love me, Mother. He just thinks I'm pretty." Blaise swayed and stumbled against the nearest wall, unable to trust his hearing. "He says I belong to him. But never . . ." Hypatia sighed and hugged herself. "Never that he loves me."

The entity—Magic, _of course it was Magic_—in Cassiopeia's body kissed Hypatia on the crown of her head. "How like my precious Morgana. You are so similar in temperament." Magic stroked her cheek. "She doubted Merlin's love, as well."

"W-what?" Hypatia choked out, flabbergasted.

Blaise almost said the same, unable to imagine the Lady Morgana doubting Merlin's love for her. Every pureblood wizard knew he had worshipped the ground his lady had walked upon. Every pureblood wizard knew he had slaughtered all of her enemies. Every pureblood wizard knew he had treated her gently, carefully, honoring her life with every part of himself. Lady Morgana had been unsure of him?

Just as Hypatia, apparently, was unsure of Blaise. That thought cut to the quick.

"Has not your Lord Zabini called you 'my love' on more than one occasion?"

"It's just a saying. Papa calls chaos, and pranks, and Firebolts, and treacle tart, and countless others things 'my love'," Hypatia replied, eyes shadowed with pain.

"Has not your Lord Zabini held you close and kissed your neck just minutes ago?" Magic challenged.

Hypatia stared at her toes. "He said it was a demonstration of Creevey's thoughts."

The catch in her voice made Blaise wince. Had she truly not understood him? Had he held so fiercely onto the reins of his emotions that she hadn't felt his passion for her? His ever-aching need? His desperate desire? His unending love?

Cassiopeia's eyes radiated cold moonlight as they turned upon Blaise. "Now is the time to prove yourself, Lord Zabini."

She barely had time to step back before Blaise hugged Hypatia to his chest. "I will."

Then Blaise released the reins of his emotions, allowing everything he usually kept locked away to surge forward in an instant. He was peripherally aware of Cassiopeia dragging Eridanus away, Creevey Levitating behind them, but only paid it a passing thought. He had a much more important task at hand: convincing Hypatia that he loved her. "Merlin honored Lady Morgana le Fay," he said. "And I will honor you, Lady Hypatia the Fae."

"Blaise, I—"

Blaise threw his magic over hers, blanketing it, and poured his obsessive, possessive, protective desires into her own magic. He hurled his aching love, his need, his want, and his gentler emotions: joy at seeing her, longing for their bonding, wishing for their children, but mostly—prominent among all others—his resolute, unshakable, unvanishing, eternal love for her. "You're mine," he growled.

He noticed the exact moment when her aureate eyes finally shone with understanding. All these years, every possessive declaration of ownership had been a confession of Blaise's love. And she hadn't _heard_ it until now.

Hypatia put her hands on his shoulders and stretched upward on her tiptoes; Blaise bent down to accommodate her. She leaned their foreheads together and stared into his eyes, then nodded acquiescently. "Okay," she said. "_Okay_."

And then she was kissing him, her hands buried in his hair. As he claimed her mouth and held her as tightly as he could without hurting her, Blaise thanked Merlin that his ancestors had always followed the Ancient Ways.

The love of the blood and gold faerie was beyond price.


	15. To Love Too Much

**Title:** To Love Too Much

**Pairings:** Harry Potter/Hermione Granger, Harry Potter/Surprise

**Warnings:** AU, Post-DH, established relationship, past character death, sensuality, and tragedy.

* * *

Harry Potter pulled his wife closer to his chest, rubbing one hand over her distended stomach. A little foot kicked against his palm, and the grin on Harry's face was blinding. After three years of peace, he was finally going to be a father. He was finally going to have a family of his own. "Hey, little man," he whispered. "Are you going to make an appearance soon? You've kept us waiting an extra two weeks already."

The baby kicked again.

Hermione Potter groaned and carefully rolled over, so that her swollen stomach rested between them. "Why couldn't our first one have been a bookworm, Harry? No, you had to make a Quidditch player in me. A Beater, by the feel of him."

Harry blushed, ducked his head, and grinned. His other hand tangled in her chestnut hair and guided her down for a loving kiss. "Sorry."

"No you're not, mister," huffed Hermione, brown eyes sparkling

Laughing, Harry buried his face in her hair. "You're right. I'm not. You're giving me a family, Hermione. The next one can be a bookworm. This is my son, you know. He's supposed to play Quidditch. He's got to be strong so he can protect his brothers, but mostly his sisters, from anyone who wants to hurt them, or flirt with them."

Hermione sniggered and carded her fingers through his delightfully soft hair. "So your daughters are going to attract unwanted suitors, are they?"

Harry leaned back and stared at her as if she had just declared reading was boring. "Well, duh, Hermione! Haven't you ever looked in a mirror? Our daughters—plural, of course—are going to have men after them like crazy. Viktor Krum, International Quidditch Star, ringing any bells?"

Blushing, Hermione kissed him. "That was just a little crush. He was never you, Harry. All I've ever wanted was you. You're the only one I've ever loved," she confessed. "I was hoping to make you jealous and catch your attention, is all. It was very silly and immature of me."

"Well, it worked," Harry said. He could easily remember how irritated he had been to see Hermione, his best friend, all dressed up and in another wizard's arms. That was the night he had realized he fancied her. It had taken him another year to get up the courage to ask her out. She had been his since fifth year, not even glancing at other men with interest in her eyes, and many, many men had shown interest once he did.

The first night he was at Grimmauld Place, Sirius Black, his godfather, had nudged him with a bony elbow and winked slowly. "Taking after your dad, eh? Can't blame you, pup. Beautiful and smart is a rare combination. Just keep it in your trousers until you're bonded, all right? If you really love her, treat her right."

He blushed furiously at the memory, and traced his hand across Hermione's stomach, grin widening with each kick against his palm. Harry had waited, as Sirius advised, despite the overwhelming temptation on occasion, and it was worth it. Waiting to consummate their love was worth it because it let them bond, instead of marry. It soothed the niggling doubts in the back of his mind that she would eventually get tired of him, or that he wouldn't be able to make her happy. Their magic had been entwined together, strengthening both of them, and guaranteed that the child in her stomach was of his making.

Not that he thought Hermione would ever cheat on him . . . because he didn't.

However, after losing so much in his life, the added reassurance of her love and safety, which radiated through him, eased the orphan part of his mind. The little child who thought everyone who loved him would either die or abandon him of their own free will.

"Harry, you know I love you. More than anything in the world." Hermione scratched his scalp. "I never apologized before, but it was wrong of me to try to make you jealous like that. I just—I thought you would never notice me. I thought you'd break my heart."

"I love you, too. And there's nothing to forgive, Hermione. How could I want you to apologize for anything that led us here? You're my wife, my lady." He slid his hand down her bare arm and grasped her left hand, raising it to kiss the jeweled heirloom ring—the same bonding ring his mother had worn. "You were my first everything. You're carrying my child, love. You've given me a family." Harry's jaw hardened. "Never apologize for that."

Hermione squinted at him in the evening light, and then nodded. "All right, Harry. All right." She wrapped her arms around his neck and tugged him close for a kiss. Kissing Harry was like coming home; it was safe and loving, but had undertones of passionate longing and desire. When she finally withdrew, Hermione smirked at the look he gave her. Harry stared at her as if she were the only woman he ever saw, and she wouldn't have it any other way.

"I want our sons to have your eyes," she said as she brushed her thumb underneath his right eye. "But at the same time, I don't. I don't want any other witch in the universe to know what it's like to lie in bed with your eyes looking at them like that." She nuzzled his cheek. "That fiery need in your eyes belongs to me, Harry. No one else should see it."

Harry's breath stuttered in his chest and he tightened his hold on Hermione. "Then we'll just have to ask Morgana to make sure our daughters get my eyes." It seemed like a silly thing to say, but the smile that lit Hermione's face made him ache. The simple words had made her so happy. He knew she was possessive of him, worried that he—the Lord Conqueror—would slip through her fingers even now. She still woke up from nightmares and reached for him with desperate hands, as if he had vanished from their bed.

Cho Chang had tried to catch his eye in fifth year, after Cedric's death, to no avail. Romilda Vane had attempted to dose him with a love potion in sixth year, and caught Ron Weasley instead. And Ginny Weasley had sought to win his heart out of a misguided sense of hero-worship, and in repayment for saving her life. Ginny was the only one who hadn't sparked that sharp, bitter resentment in Hermione's eyes that was so very rare. Hermione and he had sat down with Ginny and explained that they were together, she owed Harry nothing, and that would never change. The relief on Ginny's face had been painful to see; she had burst into tears and flung herself at them, thanking them for releasing her from a pureblood maiden's debt bond. Harry still didn't entirely know what it was, but Hermione had quickly supplied the words he needed to say to fix the whole situation. Now sweet Ginny, their little sister in all but blood, was engaged to Neville Longbottom. Harry couldn't be happier for her.

Hermione nodded. "That'll work nicely. Good idea, Harry. And Morgana likes you, so I'm sure she'll answer your prayer."

"Sure she does," Harry agreed. He still wasn't used to all the Olde Religion stuff. Hermione had told him all about it, having found it in some books or whatnot. She believed that their children should be raised in the proper traditions of magic, something neither of them had ever had: Harry's parents having died before they could pass any of it along, if they so desired, and Hermione's being Muggles—who she had left to their happy lives in Australia with a newborn daughter. Praying to Merlin and Morgana was odd, but nothing bad ever came from it. In fact, more than once, he would even dare to say it helped. "So, no other woman gets to see my bedroom eyes?" he teased, wiggling his eyebrows. "Even in the face of my sons?"

Hermione's eyelids fell to half-mast. "Would you want any other wizard to see my eyes like this?" she purred as her fingers walked across his bare chest.

Livid fury ate at Harry, and the Elder Wand appeared in his hand without a single word on his part. It constantly returned itself to him in times of high emotion or danger, regardless of how often he left it in Dumbledore's tomb. "You're mine." It was a statement of fact, nothing less.

"Of course I am," agreed Hermione as she eased the Elder Wand out of his hand and put it on the bedside table. "I am, Harry. That's something you never have to worry about. I swear it." She kissed him with loyal devotion this time, no hint of teasing to be found. "Why don't we make it fair and ask Merlin to give my eyes to our sons, then?"

Harry whispered, "Yeah, okay," against her neck as he buried his face against it. The thought of anyone seeing that look in her eyes—that sheer need, which belonged to him alone—frightened him. He would do almost anything to keep that to himself; it was more personal and private than most things in his life. He treasured that look. It was genuine love, something impossible to fake. When that look was in his wife's eyes, it was because she wanted him, saw him alone, just Harry: her husband.

The baby kicked hard, drawing Harry's gaze down to her stomach. "Hey, little man. Are you ready to come out yet? We love you. We want to meet you." The baby stilled. "I guess not," Harry sighed. Each day past the due date was excruciating; nine months was already long enough! "Stop hogging your mum," muttered Harry.

Hermione laughed and ruffled Harry's hair. "From what I've heard, your dad was a total mum's boy. This is what you get for deciding to name our firstborn James Sirius."

"Hey!" Harry wrinkled his nose with false affront. "Sirius left his mum because she was horrid; I figured it would balance out."

"And then went to live with your grandmother, clinging to his favorite older cousin as much as James did," Hermione retorted with a smile. "Let's face it, this kid is going to be a total mum's boy. It must run in the Potter genes. He hasn't even been born yet and he doesn't want to share me."

Harry pouted and then poked her stomach. "Then you're giving me a daughter next. As soon as possible." He winked. "And she'll be a daddy's girl. As head of this family, I've decided it shall be so!" he declared with a cheeky grin.

Hermione snorted. He was too adorable. "And what, oh head of the family, will this daughter I must provide as soon as possible—after birthing your heir—be named? Or do I not get any say in this?"

The solemnity of Harry's face was uncharacteristic, as his words echoed through their bedchamber. However, he had long ago decided what he would name his firstborn daughter, and he knew Hermione, of all people, would never disagree with it. "Lilith Nymphadora Potter," he breathed.

Silence hung in the air, before Hermione shattered it. "That's . . ."

"Perfect," Harry finished for her. "I know it doesn't bring up pleasant memories, love." He held her in his arms and kissed her cheek. "But I'll never forget that she died to keep you safe, so that you could return to me. When Dolohov grabbed you from Hogsmeade, I thought . . . I thought I had lost the only woman I would ever love. And then somehow, someway, she snuck into Voldemort's Headquarters and got you out for me. Sirius died to save me. And Nymphadora died to save you," he choked out. "I want our children to know that. They only exist because of the loyalty and love of the sane side of the Black family."

"I—" Hermione started crying and fought against the blankets, pushing them away and sliding out of his arms. "I . . . I have to go to the bathroom," she finished, an obvious lie.

"I'll keep the bed warm for you," Harry said, worried eyes on his wife. Whenever he brought up that day, Hermione broke down and left the room. She had never given him all the details, and he would never ask her to; the traumatized look in her eyes when she stumbled onto Hogwarts grounds—covered in blood with torn robes—told of the horrors she had faced.

Hermione waddled into the bathroom, her hands on her lower back until the door closed. Then she leaned against the vanity and wept, shoulders hunched. Even after all this time that name still hurt. That day was the very best and the very worst day of her life. She had kissed the man of her dreams for the first time. It was also the first day she had ever killed someone. And, after all this time, she still couldn't regret it. Not when it had led her here—into Harry's bed, carrying his heir, as his bonded wife.

Would Harry still love her if he knew the truth? "No," she whispered. "He'd hate me." Yet, their magic rippled with assurance that he would love her forever. Still, she could never take the chance. Never, ever tell the truth. After what she had done, she could not risk losing him.

She loved him far too much. More than any sane person ever had, if she was still sane at all.

Her hands retreated from their position, wiping the tears off her cheeks as she stared at the mirror. Her reflection shifted, melted and molded, revealing a truth that Harry could never, ever, _ever_ know. The reflection had dark, twinkling eyes, high cheekbones, and hair as bright as pink bubblegum.

Nymphadora Potter née Tonks touched the mirror, stroking her own cheek. "She was in love with Ron, Harry. She would have broken your heart. But I love you with all of mine, and you never looked at me. So I k-killed her to fulfill both our dreams." Her eyes glittered like wet stars through the blurring tears. "Even if you see her eyes, taste her lips, hold her body, and call me by her name—you're still mine." She pressed a fist against the cold glass. "And you always will be."

Harry deserved the best of everything, unconditional love, and a powerful bonding. The little Muggle-born would have destroyed him, so she had to die. There was no other choice.

Nymphadora focused on her Metamorphmagus powers and resumed the identity she had worn for the last six years, and would continue to wear for the rest of her life. She checked herself critically in the mirror, nodded once in approval, and then left the bathroom.

The grin on Harry's face was warm, lazy, and welcoming as he lifted the sheets for her. "Come to bed, love."

She cuddled against him and pulled his arm around her, inhaling the scent of Harry: power and sweat. "Harry," she whispered, "if I . . . if I ever did something wrong, would you forgive me?" She held her breath.

Harry kissed her neck. "Of course, Hermione. I love you."

Nymphadora allowed the words to wash over her and smother the flinch. Even though the name was and always would be incorrect, it was her own magic—Nymphadora Tonks' magic—that was twined with Harry Potter's, that had been found worthy of being the next Lady Potter and Lady Black. The love she felt from their combined magic was enough for her.

Even if Harry never knew it, she—Nymphadora—had been his first everything. _Hermione_ was nothing more than the name of a dead Muggle-born who was too stupid to understand what Harry was worth. Everything.


	16. I Would Deny You Nothing

**Title:** I Would Deny You Nothing

**Pairings:** Harry Potter/Luna Lovegood and Draco Malfoy/Astoria Greengrass

**Warnings:** AU Post-DH and infertility.

* * *

Harry Potter winced and dropped his copy of the _Daily Prophet_. Its headline declared in moving, bold font that his schoolboy rival, Draco Malfoy, now had a son. His hand shook as he reached for his glass of pumpkin juice. Draco Malfoy had a son . . . and he didn't. Harry lifted his glass and tossed the pumpkin juice back as if it were a shot of liquor. It didn't burn down his throat, though he wished it had. The pain might have made the situation more tolerable.

Eight years now, Voldemort had been truly dead, and the evil wizard still haunted every day of Harry's life.

It seemed a new Weasley child was being born every other month. He was a godfather seven times over—Neville and Hannah Longbottom's second child being his newest goddaughter. Yet the title he most longed to bear, _father_, was not his.

Luna Potter, his wife of seven years, walked into the room tentatively. She flinched when she saw the newspaper on the ground. "I wanted to burn it, but . . ."

"I would have found out anyway," Harry choked out.

Everything had changed for them in Malfoy Manor, back when Harry was only seventeen years old. He had helped Luna escape, and had spent time with her in Shell Cottage when Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger were off on their own. It had started simply at first, but before he knew what was happening, he had fallen in love with Luna Lovegood. She understood what it was like to see her own mother die, to be alone, to have no friends, to be bullied, to be tortured. Luna understood him in a way that Ginny Weasley never could.

In just a few years' time, he had been forced to grow up. Luna had suffered similar experiences, and so she empathized on the deepest level. He had needed that then, and still needed it today. Only, now they suffered jointly in the bitterest gall of pain.

"I know," replied Luna. "I just wish—" She smothered the words, and Harry was grateful for that. Wishes were useless at this point. Not even the Elder Wand had been able to help them, when Harry dared to remove it from Dumbledore's tomb.

"I would give up all my fame, all my titles, if I could give you one child," Harry whispered, a vow he had repeated countless times since they had learned the truth.

"And I would sacrifice all the mythical creatures I've ever believed in if I could bear you one," she whispered in return, tears welling in her silver-gray eyes.

Years ago, before they had learned the truth, Harry and Luna spent hours planning their future family. They redecorated the nursery in Potter Manor, and then built another one near it for their future daughters. They compiled a list of names, some serious, some ridiculous, some unpronounceable, and they were genuinely fond of very few.

But then time passed. Everyone they knew was either expecting or giving birth or already had children, and they had nothing but the hope of a child. Surely, eventually, it would happen. All they wanted in the world was a large family to call their own. After all they had suffered through, after all they had lost, surely Magic would grant them their deepest desire.

"I know you would, my love," said Harry as he set the glass back down on the table. The sound of crystal meeting wood rang unnaturally loud in the silent dining room.

Three years ago, they had performed a fertility ritual: an Olde Magick ritual Luna had researched for months. Luna's menses three weeks later crushed their only remaining hope for children of their own. The specialist from St. Mungo's had said if anything could give them a child, it would be the Olde Magick.

Perhaps it would have torn them apart, if one of them were to blame. However, both were infertile. Bellatrix Lestrange had tortured and poisoned Luna countless times when she had been locked in the Malfoys' dungeon. The damage had been permanent by the time that she had been rescued. And Harry had been dead for several minutes as he spoke with Dumbledore's spirit in King's Cross Station, in a world of white. A body without life couldn't produce progeny, and by the time he returned to the world of the living, it was too late.

Their agony had only brought them closer together. And it eased their pain, if only the slightest bit, to know that the blame didn't rest solely on their own shoulders.

Luna swallowed and removed her right hand from behind her back; her knuckles were white from where they clutched the miniature Quidditch broom. It was meant to be their oldest child's first toy. He still remembered the day they had picked it out: hearts free from grief and eyes alight with joy.

"He'll be a Seeker, like me," Harry had teased. "Or a Chaser, like my dad," he had whispered almost inaudibly.

Laughing, Luna had pulled it from his grasp and whacked him with it right there in the middle of Quality Quidditch Supplies. "Or a Beater, like his godfather," she had said.

Back then, before their dreams were dashed, they had intended to ask George Weasley to be their child's godfather. George had been so lifeless with the loss of his twin, understandably, and they were sure that being asked to be their child's godfather would bring some light back into his eyes, which had dimmed with the loss of Fred. Instead, it was Angelina Johnson, now Weasley—his twin's old girlfriend—who had brought the spark back to his eyes when they had bonded years ago.

"I thought—" Luna sighed and traced her slender fingers over the toy broom. "Draco's mother saved your life. It seems only right to give his firstborn son a gift," said Luna. Even as she spoke, she clutched the broom to her chest, as if she never wished to part from it.

"We never got his daughter anything," breathed Harry, unable to tear his gaze away from the broom they had bought for _his_ heir. His precious, beloved son . . . who would never exist.

"It wouldn't have been proper, seeing as we weren't hoping to ally our families through a bonding," Luna said. She trembled. "Gifts are only given to the daughters we hope are someday worthy of our heir."

Sighing, Harry leapt from his chair and engulfed Luna in his embrace. "I'm sorry, my love. I didn't know. I still have much to learn about the Ancient Ways," Harry said. In the beginning, shortly after they had bonded, he had been enthusiastic to learn the Ancient Ways, as excited as Luna was to teach him. He had never devoured anything that quickly before, not even Defense Against the Dark Arts. Practicing the Ancient Ways felt like coming home after being on holiday for much too long.

But once the fertility ritual had failed them, both he and Luna had found it hard to devote themselves as fully as before. Magic hadn't answered their desperate plea, even after years of faithful service. Harry felt like Magic had betrayed him, and it wasn't a betrayal he was motivated to forgive. If anything, it left him feeling bitter. After losing his parents, and participating in that stupid tournament, and fulfilling Magic's cruel prophecy, didn't he deserve a reward?

"If you wish to give Draco and his wife the broom—" Harry's fingers trailed along the smooth wood. "Do what you think is best, my love."

"What I think best?" Luna's head fell forward against his chest, and her shoulders twitched. "What I think is best would be highly illegal. Stealing from the Department of Mysteries, changing time, allowing Voldemort to win . . ." Luna leaned back and cupped his face with her smooth palm. "I would let the world crumble to ruins and _burn_ if I could only give you a family."

Harry clung to her and set his chin on her head as he gasped in a breath. This was the first time either of them had spoken such thoughts aloud, but the sentiment wasn't a new one. Every time he held the Deathstick, Harry knew how easily he could make that a reality; he could go back and stop her from being tortured, could stop his own death, and hide them from Voldemort. But . . . "I will not condemn people to death, our friends, our family, and innocent children, just so I can have a child," Harry said, each word ripped viciously from him. He tried to imagine a world without Teddy, Hugo, Rose, Fred, Roxanne, and the others.

"Ever the Gryffindor. Ever the Potter," Luna sighed. "Unable to let others suffer for you." She rose up and kissed his cheek. "I would not have you any other way."

Before Harry could reply, a house-elf with enormous ears and massive blue eyes popped into the dining room. "My Lord and Lady is being having guests." The house-elf quivered with excitement, likely because they hadn't left the manor or allowed anyone to visit in almost a year now.

Luna set the toy broom on the buffet table and swished her wand, removing the evidence of her tears. Her pale skin was smooth as porcelain and unmarred, and her silver-gray eyes were no longer tinged with red. "Where did you put them?"

"They's being in the front sitting room, Lady."

Harry bowed his head and fisted his hands in his hair, his throat feeling like it would swell shut. The last time someone had interrupted their request for solitude, Ron and Hermione had come to inform them she was pregnant. Today, of all days, he wasn't sure he could handle news like that. "Thank you. Please tell them we'll be along momentarily."

"As Master is wishing." The house-elf popped away.

"I don't know if I can . . ."

Luna cupped Harry's face between her hands and stared right into his eyes. "We will smile and congratulate them, and say 'yes, of course', when they ask us to be godparents again."

Closing his eyes, Harry nodded. "All right. Let's get this over with." He tangled their fingers together and guided his wife out of the room and through the manor. Each step closer felt like an eternity. He had heard Ron and Hermione whispering once that they should name their next child either James or Lily for his sake. While he appreciated the sentiment, it would only cause him even more pain to be a godfather—not a father—to children with names that belonged to his family's legacy.

He paused outside the door to the sitting room to take a fortifying breath, and then headed in with Luna at his side. The sight that met his eyes was most unexpected. Heiress Astoria Malfoy was sitting on the nearest settee, a fair baby sleeping against her chest. And Heir Draco Malfoy stood with his back to them, staring up at the life-size portrait of Harry's grandparents: Charlus and Dorea Potter.

"You look radiant, Astoria," Luna said as she released Harry's hand and joined her friend on the settee.

Harry didn't disagree. His old rival, and now friend-of-a-sort, had done very well for himself. Astoria had been in Ravenclaw with Luna, and was one of the few girls who had ever treated her well. It also didn't escape his attention that they were of a likeness: blonde, fair of face, and slight in nature.

"Thank you," Astoria said. Her voice was thick and wet, as if she would burst into tears any moment.

"What's wrong?" demanded Harry, gaze homing in on the sleeping infant. "Is something wrong with him?" Had they come to beg his assistance, request that he use the Elder Wand to heal their child? Harry would do so in a heartbeat. He would rather have no children his entire life than lose one right after it was born.

"S-Scorpius is fine," Astoria assured them through her tears. She wrapped her arms around her baby, as if she thought he would vanish.

"Then what's the matter?" asked Luna softly. She stroked Astoria's hair as if the younger woman were a child, not old enough to have two children of her own. "And how can we help?"

The answer they sought came from Draco, whose back was still facing them. "Love him."

"What?" Harry asked ineloquently. Love whom?

So slowly that he didn't seem to be moving at all, Draco turned around. His arms were cradling an infant that looked identical to the one in Astoria's arms. Except the baby had black hair. Draco's voice was a mixture of utter loss, firm resolve, and undeniable command. "His name is James Sirius Potter. Love him until the day you die. Give him everything he could ever want."

Wetness trickled down Harry's cheeks as he collapsed in a nearby chair. "James Sirius Potter? Draco . . . w-what are you s-saying?"

Draco closed the distance between them as slowly as he had turned around what must have been an hour ago. He offered the sleeping baby to Harry, and Harry cradled it against his chest without a moment's thought. He had held many babies over the years, and knew how to do it right. Draco's long, slender fingers feathered through the soft black hair on the baby's head. "Lord Harry Potter, in recompense for the crimes the Noble and Most Ancient House of Malfoy committed against your wife, I offer this child, of noble and pure blood, to be your son and heir." Draco's voice seemed to fail him for a moment, and then he whispered, "He is named James Sirius Potter, after your honorable father and godfather." Draco swallowed and took a step backward, eyes never leaving the baby. "Heiress Malfoy and I pray that he will bear your family name with honor, and never give you cause to grieve."

The moment the last word left Draco's mouth, Harry felt a magical bond appear in his mind; it tied him to the baby boy in his arms as the child's father. Luna sobbed loudly and rushed over, lightly stroking her fingertips along the baby's rosy cheeks. When James yawned and opened his eyes, Harry almost swallowed his tongue in surprise; James had silver-gray eyes. With that and the black hair, he truly looked like the biological child of Harry and Luna.

_But he wasn't_.

It was nigh impossible to tear his gaze away from his son—_his son_—but he managed it. Draco had joined Astoria on the settee, and her face was buried in his neck as she wept. Astoria, this beautiful, generous, kind, loving woman, had just allowed her husband to give away her son—to him. They had magically severed a twin bond—for him.

"You'll be his godparents, of course," Harry said instantly. He had no words to describe the absolute relief on Draco's face at the pronouncement. Harry stood, James held tightly to him, and walked over, kneeling before the settee. After each Malfoy had placed a hand atop James's head, Harry spoke the ritual words. "Lady Magic, I grant Draco and Astoria Malfoy the right of guardianship over my son and heir, James Sirius Potter. I pray that they may always watch over him, guide his path, and protect him from whatsoever may seek to cause him harm."

Astoria's eyes fluttered shut and she whispered, "I can feel him again."

Luna knelt beside him and smiled up at the Malfoys through her tears. "And you'll foster him for us, of course. We would trust no other with our only son."

Draco leaned forward and kissed Luna's cheek. "Thank you, Lady Potter. _Thank you_."

"Luna and Harry," Harry corrected. "I think it's only fair to be on a first name basis with our son's godparents. Besides, anyone who has unfettered access through my wards has no need to address me by my title."

Astoria looked like she wanted to throw herself into Harry's arms and hug him forever. She kissed his cheek, instead. "Thank you, Harry. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you!"

"Would you . . . ?" Draco was dazed, as if he couldn't believe their reaction to what he and his wife had done. "Would you be Scorpius's godparents? We hadn't dared to hope they would have a godsibling bond, but now . . ."

James wriggled in his arms, and Harry stared down at his son. His son! Eyes so like Sirius's gazed up at him, soothing an ache that was ten years old. "Draco," Harry said, voice tender and welcoming, "you could ask anything of me today, and I would deny you nothing."

"Just love him," Draco said.

Harry and Luna nodded in unison and swore a Potter Oath, "We will."


	17. Of Mazes and Misunderstandings

**Title:** Of Mazes and Misunderstandings

**Pairings:** Cedric Diggory/Harry Potter, and canon side pairings

**Warnings:** AU, genderswap, minor angst, and minor gore.

* * *

Lady Harry Potter leaned against Fred Weasley as she watched the champions prepare to enter the maze. Her gaze settled, as it had been wont to do as of late, on Mister Cedric Diggory.

"Oh ho!" George Weasley exclaimed from her other side. "Debating slumming, little lion?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," muttered Harry.

"I'm talking about you ogling our resident, famous Puff. So you like the tall, strong, and Quidditch type, do you?" teased George. He waggled his eyebrows.

"I didn't think your hormones had kicked in yet," Fred added. He grinned at her. "But if you like the tall and Quidditch type, and you don't mind slumming with lesser purebloods—"

"Then Fred and I would like you to know that we don't object to being slummy—slummish?—from the slums," George finished. He leaned forward until his blue eyes blocked her line of sight.

Harry snorted and bit her lip, trying not to laugh in his face. She knew it was a joke, but she could see the slightest bit of truth in his eyes. Either of them would be honored by her interest, but that was never going to happen. Marauders didn't date each other, even if they weren't all the same gender this generation. Her dad, Sirius, and Remus would hassle her until she died if she allowed either of the Weasley twins to court her. Besides, they had spent too much time together; they might as well be her brothers.

"My hormones are none of your business," she said. It was impossible to imagine life without Fred and George now; she had stumbled into them in Diagon Alley—they hid her after she hexed Pansy Parkinson's hair bright pink with her dad's wand—and had been partners in crime and humor ever since.

"Your _girl _hormones are. We need to know when to hide."

"And who to beat up," Fred said with a wicked smile.

"Your _boy_ hormones, on the other han—"

Harry jabbed her wand into George's side and glared. "Do you _really_ want to finish that sentence?" He shook his head. "Good," she mumbled. Harry was tired of the constant wisecracks she had been forced to endure since she was a child. It was common knowledge that in the Potter family, the firstborn child was always a male. Always. As far back as their genealogy went—over a thousand years—this was the case. So when her father, Lord James Potter, found out that his wife, Lady Lily Potter, was expecting, he chose a proper name for his firstborn son and heir. Magic registered his decision . . . and so her name was Harry James Potter.

The Marauders (generation one) had thought it was hilarious—a prank pulled over their eyes by fate. Her mother was still not amused almost fifteen years later. However, her ire over the topic had lessened when Harry's younger sister was born, and Lily named her Primrose Dorea Potter.

Though Harry had never told anyone, because she didn't want to suffer even more teasing, she actually liked her name. All the pureblood girls she knew had elegant names: flowers, stars, Greek, or Roman. But not her. If someone were to compare the young ladies of their acquaintanceship, she would definitely be unique. And not just because she had a male's name.

"So, Diggory, huh?" asked Fred.

Harry shrugged her shoulders and didn't answer. Something about the silent Hufflepuff captivated her, and it wasn't solely because he had once caught the Snitch before she did. Perhaps it was the way he acted—with honor and honesty—or mayhap it was the devotion he showed in his friendships. She couldn't put her finger on why, exactly, her gaze flitted to Cedric multiple times whenever he was in her vicinity.

"Isn't he courting Chang?" George inquired softly.

"Yes," she replied. Back in December, she had spent weeks working up the courage to ask him to the Yule Ball, even though it _simply wasn't done_. Pureblood witches did not ask wizards to galas, events, or anything; they were to wait for a wizard to invite them. The day she finally garnered her mettle was the same day she overheard Cho Chang squealing in delight, at the top of her lungs, as she babbled to Marietta Edgecombe about Cedric's invitation to escort her to the ball.

Her heart had lurched in her chest, and she had ended up attending with some Ravenclaw boy whose name she couldn't even remember now. Except for when she and the twins had spiked the punch with Firewhisky and set Trelawney's hair on fire (an illusion, not real flames), the night was an utter disappointment. She had possessed no desire to dance, and only took a turn around the Great Hall with Fred and George because they gave her no choice.

"I thought so. She was his hostage in February," Fred said. He patted Harry's shoulder sympathetically.

Harry stared at Cedric as a hologram of him floated into the air. It was a screen of sorts, so the viewers in the stands could keep track of his progress as he traversed the maze and fought the terrors within. His hair was a deep chestnut, like the bark on her favorite tree on the manor grounds, and his eyes were a bright gray, almost like Sirius's, but not quite. Still, they were familiar, comforting. Maybe his eyes preoccupied her? She was so used to seeing love and care and protection beam out at her from eyes nearly identical to his.

"Don't see why he'd want Chang if he could have you," George stated. The smile on his face was genuine, and just one of the reasons he was one of her best friends. Weasleys made great friends. Fred and George, at least. She didn't really know the others too well, even though Ginny was a girl and Ron was in her year. Ron tended to get all tongue-tied around her, and that was just awkward and embarrassing. She preferred to avoid such situations whenever possible.

"You're a better Seeker, if it's the Quidditch angle he likes," Fred stated with a smirk. Then again, he had a right to be smug; Gryffindor hadn't lost the Quidditch Cup since Harry became their Seeker back in first year. It had been close last year, though, with that loss to Hufflepuff. Luckily, Slytherin had completely humiliated them, and Gryffindor ended up with the Cup once again.

"If it's the pureblood angle, your family's much more prestigious than hers," George said with a snooty tone, nose in the air.

"Oh, shut it," Harry chided him as she slapped him on the arm. She hated the drama that came along with her title, heritage, and defeating of Voldemort as an infant. She especially disliked how quick other pureblood witches were to point out any deficiencies in her education or actions. She spent hours with the Weasley twins, who were from a _lesser_ family. She had been _alone_ with them. She casually touched them and others. Had she no shame?

Harry had given up on being the perfect pureblood maiden at seven, when she had the unfortunate opportunity to meet Pansy Parkinson. When she had finally escaped the 'play date', she went home and chopped her hair off with her mother's scissors. Her mother had been horrified, her father had laughed and said she looked even more like a 'Harry' now, and Sirius had said she was as wild and mischievous as a pixie or imp, so she might as well look like one.

She reached up and fingered the short strands of her hair; it might not be long, but it was smooth as silk and black as the night sky. _And if he likes her physical appearance, I don't compare_, Harry thought. Chang was taller, had long, black hair, an olive complexion, and plenty of curves to catch a wizard's eye. Harry was about five foot six, with no curves to speak of, though her mother insisted she had been the same until she was almost sixteen. And only a blind person would think Lady Lily Potter was flat or lacked an hourglass figure.

"Hey now, get those thoughts out of your head," Fred growled.

Harry blinked. "I don't know—"

"We're not stupid, little lion," George said. "You've got insecurity written all over your face." He scowled up at the holographic Cedric, who was fighting a Blast-Ended Skrewt. "You're beautiful. Don't let anyone make you think otherwise."

"If Diggory's too dumb to notice, that's his problem. He obviously doesn't deserve you," Fred said before ruffling her hair.

Harry sighed and leaned further against Fred, while George scooted closer. They were blocking her in again, or, more like, keeping others out and away from her. She knew that Sirius and her father had offered them apprenticeship positions at Marauders' Mischief—the most popular joke shop in the wizarding world. If one of the stipulations was to keep her safe, she didn't need to know, nor would she care. They had been her partners in mayhem long before they accepted the offer.

She imagined the look that would appear on her father's face if he ever found out that someone liked any other girl over her. He would check them for curses, no doubt. The image made her snort, then snigger, as she buried her head against Fred's chest.

"There, now. That's better!" exclaimed George with a smug smile. "The little lion should always be happy."

Harry groaned and smacked his arm. "Stop calling me 'little lion'!" Her Animagus form wasn't _that_ small. Just because she was barely an adolescent lioness didn't mean she was little! There were loads of Animagus forms smaller than hers, including both of theirs! One day she would be fully grown, and then they would have to change it . . . though she doubted they would. They were ever fond of tweaking her tail.

"Is that an Acromantula?" Fred asked, stunned.

Glancing up, Harry saw that Cedric was, indeed, fighting an Acromantula. Its teeth snapped shut, barely missing his left leg as he leapt out of the way. Vines twined up from the ground and knotted around his right ankle, yanking him to the ground. Dirt marred his pale skin, and his eyes were hard and pained. She didn't need sound effects to know how much that must have hurt. A streak of light poured from Cedric's wand and sliced open the bottom of the Acromantula—its innards and blood erupting outward and splattering all over him.

The vines were quickly dealt with after that, but he was limping, so it was either sprained or broken. If asked to place a bet, she would guess broken, because of how heavily he was favoring it, and the spell he used to bandage it.

"All right, so he might have some redeeming qualities," George admitted grudgingly, though he looked impressed by the outcome of the battle.

"Doesn't mean he's not an idiot," Fred said.

"And Cedric Diggory is Triwizard Champion," Harry said just as the holographic Cedric grabbed the cup in the center of the maze and disappeared. He landed on the wide stage to massive amounts of applause and a standing ovation from the students present.

"Want to head out before the masses?" asked Fred as he glanced down at her.

Harry nodded. "Yes, let's go." She didn't really see much point in sticking around. Surely, Chang would rush into his arms and kiss him (if she hadn't already), and Harry had no desire to see that happen. Unrequited feelings were a part of life. Seeing the person you fancied getting snogged by someone you didn't particularly like was just asking for more emotional baggage. She had enough, thank you very much.

"You know, Charlie's still single," Fred said with a smirk. "If you're interested in slumming with a pureblood, Quidditch playing, fit, honest, hard-working, loving type of bloke. And he'd know better than to break your heart."

Snorting, Harry rolled her eyes. "If Charlie's single, I'll marry Malfoy." A loud thump sounded behind them, and Harry glanced over her shoulder to see Heir Draco Malfoy, face as red as raspberries, lying unconscious on the ground. "Did he just faint?"

"Tell me someone caught that on camera!" Fred crowed.

"He was within three feet of Harry. I'm sure Creevey caught it; we can harass him for copies later." George replied, before absently changing Draco's hair Weasley red. "There. It matches his face." They all sniggered.

Harry and the twins had just rounded the stage when the ceremony ended and Cedric came down the back stairs. Chang was waiting nearby, next to a tree, but she took one look at his robes, which were covered with Acromantula guts, and sprinted in the opposite direction when he took a step toward her.

"Pathetic," Fred whispered, voice full of scorn.

"She can't handle the sight of spider innards? Weak," George agreed. But then, as sons of Molly Weasley, and being best friends with Harry—whose mother was Lily Potter—they despised weak-willed women. Real women were fiery and didn't back down from _anything_.

Cedric stood there, shell-shocked, and Harry could understand his disbelief. Even though he was from a lesser house, he had been raised with the same laws, traditions, and customs as the Ancient Houses. When a man returned from war, victorious, with the blood of his enemies upon him, it was his fiancée's, wife's, mistress's, or eldest daughter's honor and duty to clean it away. He was the protector; she was the nurturer.

Harry pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and pointed her wand at it. "_Aguamenti._" A stream of water came out of the holly wand and soaked the linen.

"Harry?" George inquired, mouth twisted in a way that implied he didn't like what he thought she was going to do. It was a rare sight on his face.

"He just won the Triwizard Tournament. He doesn't deserve this," she replied.

"You sure?" asked Fred.

Nodding, Harry walked away from them and approached Cedric. Without saying a word, she lifted the wet handkerchief and began wiping the drying fluid off his face. It smelled unpleasant and was tacky. But she didn't stop. He had slain an Acromantula, for Merlin's sake! If Chang didn't have the courage to honor that, Harry certainly did, regardless of any implications it might create.

His gaze locked on her after the first stroke of the damp cloth against his skin. The shock in his eyes increased, becoming greater than it had been when he had first seen Chang run away from him. "Lady Harry?"

It had gotten behind his ear? Gross. She only hoped it hadn't gotten _in_ his ear. She didn't know what effect Acromantula guts might have on hearing. "Hmmm?"

Cedric peered over her shoulder and tightened his grip on his wand, as if he expected to be assaulted at any moment. Post Tournament jitters? "Are you sure it's okay for you to be over here. Doing _this_?" he asked. "Not that I'm not grateful or anything, I just—"

Harry stopped washing his jaw to asked, befuddled, "Why wouldn't it be?" Unless this area was limited to contestants, or some such, she didn't see a problem.

"If I were the Misters Weasley, I wouldn't like to witness my fiancée cleaning another wizard after battle," said Cedric. His gray eyes sparked with jealousy as the words tumbled from his tongue.

"What?" Harry's brow furrowed as she tried to make sense of his words. Was he suggesting what she thought he was suggesting? "You think I'm engaged to Fred and George?"

Cedric clenched his jaw and nodded sharply. "There's no need to worry, Lady Harry. I have no intention of acting dishonorably, or assuming any romantic notions for my person on your part. I'm well aware that you are otherwise engaged. I'm surprised they would allow you to do this, but thank you for your generosity all the same." He folded his hands behind his back, as if to prove that he was harmless and wouldn't touch her without permission.

"Engaged to Fred and George?" she repeated numbly. Why in the world would he think such a thing? Other than the fact that the three of them disregarded most rules of propriety when it came to personal space, casual touching, and names.

Flushing, he cast his gaze to the ground. "I don't usually listen to gossip, Lady Harry. And I certainly never repeat it," he added instantly as his gaze met hers, begging her to believe him. "But it's common knowledge around Hogwarts that you and the Misters Weasley entered into an engagement in your second year, the early contract being allowed as they are to be apprenticed to your father."

_What?_ "We're not," Harry breathed.

"Not what?" he asked, voice low and face shuttered.

"We're not engaged," Harry said. Her hands shook as she contemplated what the future might hold if his interest in Chang was only a result of her own supposed betrothal. "They are going to be apprenticed to my dad, but we're not . . . we're just friends," she finished lamely, cheeks pink.

Cedric's gaze bore into her; his gray eyes scorched like Sirius's did when his wife—Sephora—was in the room. "Then," he said, voice raspy, "if my lady has no objections, I would like to retract my earlier statement."

"Oh?" Harry felt her heart flutter. "Which one?"

Cedric grasped the hand that held the wet handkerchief and pressed it to his cheek. "I would like to assume a great many romantic notions on your part."

Harry ducked her head, unable to believe the Marauder luck had struck again, and grinned bashfully. She caressed his face with the linen and said, "My lord is free to assume whatever he wants.

"Your lord?" Cedric shivered. "Even if I have to take your family name and forsake my own, I like the sound of that."

So did she.


	18. Something Wicked This Way Comes

**Title:** Something Wicked This Way Comes

**Pairing:** Salazar Slytherin/Harelda Potter

**Warnings:** AU, canon character deaths, dark themes, genderswap, minor sensuality, time travel, and violence.

* * *

The Elder Wand arced through the air after ripping itself from Voldemort's hand. It flew gracefully, elegantly, as if it were a trained dancer and not the most sought after weapon in the wizarding world. Its light color bespoke of innocence and purity, but she knew it was anything but innocent; it had slain countless lives. Regardless of its outer color, its core was thestral hair—only to be used by those who had mastered death. It was mesmerizing, begging for her attention, and Lady Harelda Potter was unable to deny its draw.

Instinctively, she reached out to catch the wand.

_No!_

The scream rang through her body, sending her nerves skittering with fear worse than when she had first encountered a dementor. Trembling as if she had the palsy, Harelda started to lower her hand.

_Catch it_, a voice hissed. It was dark, manic, and filled with wicked pleasure. _It's yours now. You're mine now_. Macabre cackling resounded through her head.

_Don't touch it_, the first voice whispered, steady and soothing. _You're mine. You'll always be mine. I chose you_.

Harelda hunched on the floor, ignoring everyone around her, eyes still locked on the Deathstick as it came closer and closer. She wanted it. She had earned it. And if she were the Mistress of Death, couldn't she bring people back from the dead? The Resurrection Stone alone couldn't . . . but maybe if she used all three together, maybe if she combined their powers? She could have Sirius back. Her parents could be alive. Teddy could have his parents again. George's magic would stop wailing so loudly she feared she would faint from the agonized cries.

_Oh, Magic, how naïve you are. If you hadn't intended to lose one of your chosen, you shouldn't have let her play with the Hallows. Once she had two, you should have known the third would become hers. Once she became the Mistress of Death, you must have felt it. Did you really believe that you could keep her, then?_ The laugh that followed was chiding, like a parent scolding a rebellious child.

What was going on? She recognized the sound of Magic's voice, but this other—stranger, unknown—was both unsettling and empowering. Harelda shivered.

_Not this one, Chaos. You can't have her. She's too light, too pure. She's my chosen savior, and deserves peace after all she's done for me_.

Each word from 'Chaos', as Magic called the unknown voice, was tinged with smug victory and faint mocking. _It doesn't matter what you made her for, Magic. If you wanted to keep her, you should have protected her from my influence. A part of my last child's soul dwelled inside her until earlier today. She's had basilisk venom in her veins. She's cast Unforgivables. I don't care what safe guards you put into place; they have failed. She killed the true Dark Lord—one chosen by me, not named thusly by those silly wizards of yours. And, as such, she is required to assume his role._

Wait, what? Harelda blinked rapidly, trying to understand what was happening. Magic was arguing with the entity that turned wizards into Dark Lords? And because she had vanquished Voldemort, she was required to take his place? "No," she whispered. "I won't." Voldemort was a murderer! He was a prejudiced bigot that loved mayhem, violence, torture, and death. She would never become like him.

_It amuses me, child, that you think you have a choice_, Chaos said.

_Please_, Magic begged, _don't take her. Not her_.

_Magic_, said Chaos, sharper than Gryffindor's sword, _you failed to protect her. That's your fault, not mine. Your redhead Mudblood was a better mother to her than you've been. At least the Mudblood saved her for a while longer; you can't_.

"My mother was not a Mudblood!" yelled Harelda. The crowd of people that had been surging toward her halted, stunned at the exclamation. But Chaos' taunts served their purpose; she was distracted just long enough for the Elder Wand to finish its arc and fall onto her palm.

_No!_ Magic wailed its denial. _She's to be gifted! You can't take her_.

_Oh, but I can_, purred Chaos. _There's no need to worry. I'll make sure she's gifted. In fact, I know just the wizard I'll give her to already. Don't worry, Magic; he's a pureblood and follows some of the Ancient Ways. Of course, they weren't particularly ancient in his time_. Chaos sniggered gleefully. _His wife the first time around was weak-willed and too easily killed. He didn't subjugate nearly as many people as he could have. But with your little savior at his side, Dark as a witch can be, his true magnificence—and hers—will finally be illuminated_.

_You wouldn't_ . . . Magic breathed, though it was patently clear that Chaos would.

Harelda's fingers curled around the Elder Wand reflexively. A piece of wood splintered off and bit into her skin; blood spilled from her palm, dying each of the engraved elderberries rubicund. Her breath caught in her throat as her magic rippled down the wand, teasing her blood along in its wake, until all the elderberries were plump, having fed of her life's blood.

Chaos' voice was raspy and hoarse, as if he had laughed his throat raw. _Take a look around, Magic, because all of this is about to change. You wanted peace more than anything, and were willing to risk one of your chosen daughters to get it. Instead_, he purred, _you'll be given death, torture, and war_.

Wasn't war bad? No, it couldn't be, could it? She had fought in one, hadn't she? Stretching, Harelda rose to her feet and stared imperiously around the room. It was a mess—fallen walls, screams of pain, wounds and gore. She loved it. Everyone was staring at her with either horror, awe, love, or respect. All were acceptable forms of devotion, as far as she was concerned. Her foe was fallen, and she remained.

Harelda thrust the hand holding her beloved wand into the air and stated, "I emerge victorious! He is fallen!" Cheers echoed off the stone walls, mashing together into an unintelligible shout of joy. Yes, they should be pleased. They were only alive, after all, because of her sufferance for their weaknesses and foibles. She was much too forgiving, much too kind, and needed to remember not to let others take advantage of her in the future.

Why had she ever shared her knowledge? Why had she taught others to fight, when they might rise up against her rule and use those skills against her? It was an error she must never repeat. Only her future offspring were trustworthy enough to learn from her, because they would never be able to betray her.

There was a slight niggling in the back of her mind, as if she had forgotten something vitally important. She brushed it aside. She forgot nothing. Besides, other than her beloved wand, cloak, and stone, nothing in this world had any worth.

_Come, dear one, your lord has waited much too long for you_. Had the special voice that spoke to her always been so deep and rich? Hadn't it once been light and airy? The more she thought about it, the more certain she became that it had always been thick and low. _And you've been waiting far too long to be united with him_.

Truth. There was no disputing that. She was of age to find a lord and bond. It was time to join fully and meld magic—Magic? No, Harelda, Magic isn't sentient; what a foolish idea—and bear progeny for her lord. Their children would be powerful, cunning, deft, and well protected. Death would come to all who sought to damage anyone linked to her through any type of bond. Mercy was for the pathetic, for those too stupid to understand that a deceased enemy was one who could never assault you again.

A swirling, black vortex arose before her. Shadowy tendrils wisped toward her, beckoning her closer. _This will take you to him_, said Chaos.

Harelda glanced around at her adoring minions one last time, annoyed at their cries of exclamation and shouts for her to back away from the strange portal. It wasn't strange to her, and the destination was greatly sought after: a lord of her own. A true lord. A Dark Lord. No other would be worthy of her: a Dark Lady, the Mistress of Death.

One step was all it took, and then it felt like she was Apparating through the night sky: cold and dark, with random bursts of light. The magic of the vortex tugged at her, twisting and shaping, altering she knew not what. It was impossible to focus her magic when it was being used by Chaos to send her somewhere special, somewhere safe: her new home.

Then she arrived.

Harelda inhaled a quick breath as she surveyed her surroundings. She was in a sitting room of some sort, which seemed like the type to be just off a bedchamber. It was expensive, but restrained—not gaudy or overdone. She turned to face a fireplace that was taller than she was, a small blaze casting heat into the room. Harelda curled her toes in pure silk, and then glanced down to see that it wasn't a plush rug. Somehow, someway, her hair had grown from chin-length until it literally hung all the way down her back and pooled on the floor at her feet. It was lustrous, shining like a comet-filled sky in the firelight.

She clenched the Elder Wand in her fist and gazed up at the massive mirror that hung over the mantle. Her reflection was both familiar and utterly foreign. Her eyes were no longer emerald, mimicking her mother's. As the Mistress of Death, they were the color of the Killing Curse—vicious, sickly green. The Resurrection Stone lay against the swell of her breasts, suspended in a silver basilisk's mouth, fangs keeping it in place. The basilisk's body continued around her neck, slithering occasionally and as smooth as real snake scales. And the cloak, well, it had been fashioned into some type of Medieval gown. At the moment, she wasn't invisible; it appeared as if she were wearing liquid silver.

If Harelda hadn't been facing the mirror, she probably wouldn't have noticed the door opening. As it was, it didn't make a sound. However, she wouldn't have been able to miss the roil of cruel, possessive, protective magic that stormed into the room and crashed into her, pulling her under like riptide. It was as greedy, needy, and selfish as its owner's eyes, which were as gray as her gown.

"_Have you finally found her, Chaos?_" he asked, voice a series of hisses. Parseltongue, then. She had eventually learned to distinguish the difference. "_Is she to be my lady?_" There was an almost desperate edge to his sibilant voice, as if loneliness was about to swallow him whole.

Harelda perused his fit form, cocked an eyebrow, and then asked, "Are you the lord Chaos said was mine?" She grinned at him. "Because if not . . ." Harelda released her hold on her magic, and it lashed out like a whip crafted from lava—burning, scarring, agonizing. "I'll have to torture and kill you for gazing at me in such a manner."

"_Lord Salazar Slytherin, I gift you with Lady Harelda Peverell, the Mistress of Death_," said Chaos, speaking aloud for the first time. "_As her name suggests, she is, indeed, mighty in battle. Be well pleased with her, Salazar_." It was an order, nothing less.

Salazar smirked and strode forward, not stopping when he neared her. He set his hands on her hips and yanked her forward. "For Chaos to have chosen you as my lady, you must be special," Salazar said.

Harelda peered at him through her eyelashes and hissed, "_If you dishonor me, I'll end your line_." The Deathstick was aimed directly at his manhood.

Instead of the threat she expected in return, Salazar forced her even closer, his grip tight, and whispered, "You would never dare to dishonor me. I'm the most powerful—magically, politically, and financially—wizard in the world. You have nowhere else to go but down." His magic slashed at hers, gouging wounds toward her core. "You don't want to mingle with the filth, do you?" taunted Salazar.

Snarling, Harelda cut into him with her magic, slicing through the barriers he had erected over the years. Nothing, not even the blackest of magics, could keep her out. She fought the urge to whimper as he carved out half of her magic and ripped it from her body; the flinch he gave when she did the same was a reward she treasured.

"What I have wounded, now let me heal," said Salazar ritualistically. He took control of the magic she had torn from him and eased it into her body, forming threads to sew shut the injuries he had caused during his assault. The rest he poured into her core, filling the hole he had created.

"What I have wounded, now let me heal," Harelda repeated, breathing a sigh of relief as his magic mended her core. She was as gentle and tender as she possibly could be while fixing him.

This wasn't the ceremony she had imagined participating in as a child, but she couldn't remember of what she had dreamt. Because twining magic carefully, and freely sharing magic without pain was nonsensical, wasn't it? It was a fantasy, or perhaps happened in bondings between filth, the lower classes that wouldn't commit everything they were to their lord or lady. A true bonding involved intense torment, because each individual needed to always remember how deeply their words and actions could cut each other—so that they would never seek to cause each other pain.

Now, if he ever hurt her, he would suffer as she did, and the same in return.

Distantly, as if it were the dying remnants of an echo, Harelda thought she heard a familiar woman's voice weeping as if everyone she loved had just been slaughtered before her eyes.

But Harelda couldn't focus on that, because Salazar—her lord—was kissing her most insistently. It seemed he was anxious for an heir, which she would never dream of denying him. As he swept her into his arms and carried her toward what she assumed was their bedchamber, she heard a disturbing, yet oddly comforting noise.

Chaos was chuckling and singing, as if to someone other than her or Salazar. _Something wicked this way comes_.


	19. Promise to Keep Me

**Title: **Promise to Keep Me

**Pairing:** Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley

**Warnings:** AU-HBP, and minor sensuality.

* * *

Ginevra Weasley—Ginny to anyone who didn't have a wish to be hexed, cursed, or jinxed—knelt before the fireplace in the Gryffindor common room. The room was empty of everyone, except for her, curfew having been hours ago. The flames crackled and hissed, but she couldn't smell the smoke; it was sucked straight up the chimney.

Sighing tiredly, she ran the brush through her hair again. It was down at the moment, which was rare. Her hair had the habit of tangling in the wind when left down—and the twins had started pulling it when she was only two; keeping it up all the time seemed like the easiest way to avoid unnecessary pain. She didn't usually pay much attention to it, only asking someone to trim it when it got so long she began getting headaches. Regardless of how fine it was, it was still surprisingly heavy. It almost reached her bum now, not that most people would be able to tell; a messy bun was effective at disguising the length of her hair.

"How long do you expect me to wait?" Ginny whispered.

Her heartbeat sped up as she pictured the boy she had loved for years: Harry Potter. His messy black hair and piercing green eyes flashed through her mind. Round glasses and a shy, quirky smile completed the image.

As a child, she had fancied him; she'd dreamt of growing up to be his wife. She would be Mrs. Harry Potter. He would take care of her, and they would live happily ever after.

"Those were the dreams of an innocent, ignorant girl," said Ginny, hand ceasing. She set the brush in her lap.

It was painful to remember how naïve she had been, how gullible and simple-minded. Back before Tom Marvolo Riddle—Lord Voldemort's teenage self—had somehow possessed her, she had been bright and hopeful. Now, after the fact, she wondered how anyone could stand to be around her . . . because some days she couldn't tolerate her own presence. She felt tainted, darker, and not as pure.

But that didn't change her feelings for Harry, exactly, just her perspective.

Harry wasn't a knight in shining armor; he was a boy with relatives who were indifferent at best, and uncaring at worst. He didn't live in a castle (Hogwarts excluded) with piles of gold and jewels. And though she had seen him ride many things over the years: a broom, a thestral, a hippogriff—none of them had ever been so that he could rescue her.

Ginny pulled her knees against her chest, letting the brush clatter to the floor without a care. Her nightgown tugged taut, and she propped her chin on her knees.

She snickered. "I asked how long you expect me to wait." She squeezed her eyes shut against the tears that wanted to rise. "But that's not fair, is it? You have no idea I'm waiting for you to notice I'm alive and in love with you. You probably think that I'm in love with Dean." Ginny groaned and slapped the petty feeling away. What had she been thinking? Dating Michael and Dean in the hope that Harry would finally notice she wasn't a little girl being drained by Voldemort . . . was not the best idea she had ever had.

"I'm not," she confessed to the silent room. "I've never even kissed him—or Michael or Neville. I've been saving that for you all these years. First, because it was _so romantic_. Then, once I got to know you, because I realized that you've almost never had anything to yourself, and I want to be the woman who gives you her first everything."

Ginny stretched out her legs and laid down on her back, head resting on the arms she folded beneath her.

"But I'm just Ron's little sister—your best mate's kid sister. I'm not even a girl to you, am I? I'm a genderless entity that just exists as part of Ron's life." She wiggled her toes toward the fire, almost wishing the flames would burn them. Then she might finally feel something other than the agonizingly slow pain of her heart breaking. "That's all I am, right? One of the Weasleys. The youngest, and the only daughter, but still just a Weasley."

Sitting up, Ginny started brushing her hair again almost mindlessly. "I hate that I love you so much. I hate that the first thing I think of when I wake up is you, and that you're the last thing I think of when I go to bed. I hate that I dream of someday sleeping safe in your arms, our children in the nursery down the hall. I hate that I could keep waiting my entire life for you, even after you've already married some gorgeous witch, clinging to the hope that she'll be all wrong and you'll leave her. But mostly, Harry, I hate that I'm growing up, that you don't notice, and that I can't let myself turn into a woman who wishes ill on others and covets what others have." She wept quietly, tears bathing her face and hair. Ginny took a deep breath and threw her hairbrush across the room, almost jumping at the loud, cracking sound it made. "So it's time for me to say goodbye, Harry. It's time for me to fade into the background and be the genderless entity that always battles beside you, Ron, and Hermione. Present, but never truly included."

"I-if you don't want m-me. If I'm not good enough, or not what you need . . . because I know I'm not pretty like Cho is, and I'm certainly not as smart as her. Then it's time for me to rip this love from my life and try to find a way to live without you in my dreams," Ginny said. She tumbled onto her back and swallowed noisily. "Goodbye, Har—"

A warm, shaking, callused hand clapped over her mouth.

Ginny's eyes darted around the room, but she didn't see anyone. How could someone be touching her if—the Invisibility Cloak! Ginny flushed and struggled, trying to get away, but another arm slid around her waist, pinning her against a solid chest. She flushed harder. Oh Merlin, if this was her brother's polite way of telling her she needed to shut up about Harry, she would Bat Bogey Hex him until he fainted. Tonight of all nights, she couldn't handle the usual teasing.

As she wriggled, the cloak shifted and fell backward, revealing black hair, round glasses, and fit shoulders. Ginny squeezed her eyes shut and stilled. When Harry—what in the world was he doing here?—removed his hand from her mouth, she said, "Someone please kill me now."

"No!" Harry snarled. He actually snarled, his face a mixture of rage and terror. When she gawped at him, he repeated it softer. "No."

"Harry . . . what . . . ?" How much had he heard? And why did he look so . . . she didn't have the words to describe how he looked. Or maybe she had too many words. He's _heartbrokenvictoriousshatter edlovingprotectiveafraidposs essivenervousunwanted_. And so many others that she couldn't adequately name.

As the cloak slid off his shoulders to pool beside them, he leaned over and sank his hands into her hair. "Never say 'goodbye' to me, Ginevra. I couldn't bear it. Never say that you're not as pretty or smart as Cho. You're more than twice the witch she will ever be," said Harry.

Ginny blushed and looked away, sure that she had fallen asleep before the fireplace, and this was all a dream. He would never speak to her like this—not in real life. In her dreams, he always called her 'Ginevra', saying only he had the right to call her that, because she was _his_.

Harry bent forward until his forehead rested on hers. "I accept, Ginevra. I accept your offer of all the firsts you possess. I accept your desire for my arms around you." He tightened his hold on her. "I accept your wish for children in our home, and your proper place as my wife."

"Y-you do?" Best. Dream. Ever.

"I do," Harry said solemnly, before grinning cheekily. "But your firsts won't be enough for me, Ginevra." He cupped her face. "I'll want your firsts, seconds, thirds, and forevers."

Hand shaking, Ginny reached up and stroked his stubbly cheek. "H-Harry . . . are you real?"

Harry wrapped his arms around her protectively. "Yes, Ginevra, this is real. Can't you feel me?"

She tried to suck in a breath, but it was hard. "I'll give you anything that you want, Harry. Anything at all. As long as you promise to keep me." The words felt too large, too meaningful to pass through her throat, but they fit—just barely—escaping her in the softest audible tone.

Harry pillowed her against his chest. "Never leave me," he growled. "Not for anyone. Not for anything. Not even if it's the only way to save my life."

"You can't die!" she said, instantly hysterical. Harry was holding her for real, for the first time in her life, and the thought of losing him now was intolerable.

"_Never leave me_," he repeated, voice implacable.

Tears falling once again, she buried her face against the skin of his neck. "I couldn't. You know I never could, Harry."

Satisfied, Harry kissed her hair. "Hush, Ginevra. I'm here."

"For how long?" she whispered. Voldemort was still out there. The Death Eaters were still out there. They wouldn't leave Harry alone for long, if at all. What if they captured him? Tortured him? K-killed him?

Harry placed a hand on her back, covering her heart, and stared into her eyes. "I'm here."

It wasn't a guarantee of a future for them, of another generation of Potters. It wasn't proof that she would never wake up without him by her side. It wasn't a certainty that he would win and Voldemort would fall. It wasn't nearly enough . . . not even close. But it was all she had. So Ginny scooted up and captured his lips, ready to start on their firsts, seconds, thirds, and forevers.


	20. The Tears He Had Never Seen

**Title: **The Tears He Had Never Seen Her Cry

**Pairing:** Harry Potter/Daralise Malfoy

**Warnings:** AU, bloodline alterations, Dark Magic, minor sensuality, and violence.

* * *

"I hate this," Harry Potter muttered as he flopped onto the couch. He dropped his head in Daralise Malfoy's lap, to no one's astonishment. He had known her since they were both four years old, and the sight of them ignoring 'proper protocol' was everyday in the Slytherin common room.

"Hate what?" she asked, as if she didn't know the answer. She didn't stop reading her Quidditch strategy book, only stroked her fingers through his hair as proof she acknowledged his sudden presence.

"All of it," spat Harry. He gritted his teeth and swung his legs up on the couch, letting his feet hang over the other arm. The couch was much too short with her taking up one cushion of it. Though, to be honest, it would be too short either way. Harry was almost six feet tall.

"Do stop being a child, Potter." Her voice was chiding; a sneer twisted her lips.

"Dara!" Harry cried, hands clutched to his chest. "You wound me! What happened to 'Harry'?"

"That's a good question, Potter. When you find him, please return my best friend. I'm sick of this whining, pathetic, spoilt impostor." Daralise tilted the book just enough so that she could peer down her nose at him. "Throwing a tantrum is not only unbecoming of your position, but it's annoying. Didn't we make a pact two summers ago, just after your fifteenth birthday, in fact, to not act like toddlers?"

Harry huffed and turned on his side, facing away from her. Why did she have to throw that back in his face now? Why now? He stared down at his right hand and the silver ring that encircled his pinky finger. It was the root of all his problems. He winced. Okay, so that was melodramatic and untrue. His issues started before he was even born—much too long ago. Though, of course, no one who was anyone would ever forget the scandal and drama surrounding his birth.

His birth mother, a Muggle-born by the name of Lily Evans, had married James Potter, who was heir to the Honorable and Most Ancient House of Potter at the time. James Potter had been best mates with Sirius Black, heir to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black; as such, Sirius was chosen to be Harry's godfather. Before Harry was born, Sirius's father died, making Sirius the Lord of House Black. That might have been fine, except Alice Longbottom—a pureblood lady—was chosen as his godmother.

In the end, because of all the pureblood links, Lily Potter's Muggle blood was overridden by Magic itself. Since James and Lily were only Heir and Heiress, whereas Sirius and Alice were a Lord and Lady, the nobility and purity of their blood replaced the 'inferior' blood bonds he had with James and Lily Potter.

Sirius Black, as Lord of a House of Magic, ended up being Harry's birth father, and Alice Longbottom was noted as a surrogate mother—even though neither of them had any part of his creation. James and Lily Potter ended up being his godfather and godmother. Because of this, he had been raised a Black. As Lord of the family, Sirius had no choice; he was magically compelled to teach his heir all of the proper ways of society: etiquette, courting, protocol, etc. It was a never-ending stream of tedium that Harry loathed.

Perhaps the worst part, if he really wanted to delve into the horrors of his origins, was how happy James and Lily's other children were—children who didn't have two pureblood godparents. They still loved Harry, of course, and treated him well . . . but he couldn't help but notice how delightful his would-have-been brother and sisters always acted. Henry, Rosalinde, and Daphne Potter weren't forced to follow so many rules, because the Potter family magic was Light and more generous.

The Black family magic, on the other hand, was just that: Dark.

And he, Hydrus Sirius Black—though he refused to answer to it, insisting his name was 'Harry Potter'—as the future Lord of the House, learned things he never wished to touch, spells he never wished to speak, and endured customs he didn't wish to follow.

If he had his way, the Black family would just die out in one fell swoop. Or not. He did love his little brothers and little sister, even if they weren't related by blood, per se. And Sirius's wife, Lady Calpurnia Black née Yaxley, treated him as one of her own, even though she had only birthed four children.

"Thirty-eight at last count," Arrakis Black announced as he entered the common room.

Daralise deigned to pause her reading. "Thirty-eight what?" she asked, voice dripping scorn.

Statements that weren't clear aggravated her; she felt miscommunication was liable to lead to duels to the death—and Harry understood why, though he never planned to admit that Boot's disappearance was because Harry had buried the prick in the Forbidden Forest after killing him. _Really now, Boot should have known better than to speak of Dara in such a manner while I was anywhere on Earth_. The prat had brought his fate upon himself.

"Pureblood witches wearing our family colors. Am I right, brother?" Asterope asked her twin. Her hands were flat against a small table in the corner of the room; one of the third-years, a roommate, was varnishing her nails for her. It was a common request after winning a bet; Asterope never lost.

Arrakis laughed so hard that he had to lean against the wall to keep from falling over. "Yes, of course you are. It's a sea of purple and black robes out there, Hydrus. Thank you for being older than me. They're swarming like ravenous Merpeople. Maybe you should ask Lady Daralise to protect your virtue."

Harry glared daggers at his brother, hating the appellation that rolled off his tongue. Despite his familial feelings for James Potter, Sirius was insistent that everyone in the family should address Harry as 'Hydrus'; nothing would get him to change his mind. Harry would know, because he had tried—oh, how he had tried.

Daralise snickered. "It amuses me, little third-year, that you think Harry still possesses his virtue." She continued to feather her fingers through his hair, as if she wasn't aware of the fact she had just implied her best friend was a rake.

"Oh?" Blaise Zabini, who didn't often speak, leaned forward in her chair, a wicked smile on her face. She was one of the few witches his age that wasn't wearing the Black family colors. Harry could almost love her for that . . . if she weren't her mother's daughter to the bone: cold-blooded and vicious. "Do tell. Who managed to snag—?"

Harry glanced up in time to see the look Daralise gave Blaise. If it were a sentence spoken aloud, he thought it would be something like: _There are innocent people still present, you filthy minded wretch_. He wasn't sure why, but Daralise and Blaise had gone from good friends to bitter enemies the summer after third year. Daralise refused to confide in him, too, which was unconscionable. They told each other everything!

At least, he thought they did. . . .

"I still haven't told you the best part, though!" Arrakis declared as he slouched against the wall, shoulders hunched, a grin splitting his face.

Harry jiggled his legs and rolled his eyes. Arrakis was a drama queen. Daralise hadn't even been this melodramatic when she was younger—and she was a girl! "And what is the 'best part', little dancer?" he asked, mocking the meaning of his brother's name, something he only did when he felt agitated.

Arrakis paused, as if debating the intelligence of continuing in the face of Harry's tone of voice, but opened his mouth and spoke anyway. "The Weaselette is wearing our family colors—brand new robes, too. It must have cost her family a year's wages." He snickered. "They must be desperate to land you and the family wealth, Hydrus. Her robes are . . . well, low-cut would be the polite way to put it."

"She's dressed like a trollop," one of the fifth-year boys said. "No respectable pureblood would even consider her now."

"At least . . . not for bonding," another boy said, voice dark and amused.

Daralise's hand fisted his hair; he thought that she might rip it right out of his scalp. Harry gazed at her face, wondering what had caused her reaction. It couldn't be the insult, because he knew that Daralise loathed the littlest Weasley. The Weaselette didn't honor any of the protocol, while Daralise abided by it to the letter.

Except . . . except when it came to him.

"She might be acceptable for a marriage, though."

"Or a Muggle-born. Wasn't she hanging off that seventh-year Gryffindor just last week?"

As the Slytherins erupted in petty comments and snide remarks, Harry felt like he was drowning. How had he never noticed before? He wasn't a dunderhead; he was actually very intelligent. Yet he had never realized how Daralise kept everyone else away from her until now. It was true. She followed protocol to the letter: immaculate robes, hair swept up in elegant styles, perfect manners, and she never let any men touch her.

_Except for him_.

"Silence!" Harry snarled as feelings and impressions inundated him. Their mindless chatter was distracting him from an important idea that was swelling inside him. At his command, the Slytherins stilled, hooded eyes fixed on him.

He wasn't ignorant of her beauty; she was perfection to him, but only as a passing thought. He never paid much attention to her golden hair, icy blue eyes, or porcelain skin. Her figure was lush in all the right places, and fit against him as if made for him, something he had noticed and discarded as ridiculous during the many times he gave her a spontaneous hug.

She was always _there_.

If he felt contentious, she would convince some poor fool that it was a good idea to duel the future Lord Black. If he felt like whining, she listened for a while and then told him to grow up. If he felt sad, she let him rest his head in her lap and stroked his hair until he fell asleep. If he felt anxious, she would soothe him. Honestly, no matter how he felt, Daralise knew how to deal with his moods; she always seemed to know exactly what he needed most.

That's why she was his best friend. Well, one of the main reasons.

But now that this foreign spark of an idea had entered his head, he couldn't get it out. It caught hold of countless memories, and they all went up in flames.

When Daralise bonded with someone, he wouldn't have that. He wouldn't be able to Apparate wherever she happened to be and nestle his head in her lap, or pull her into enfolding hugs. Her husband—her _lord_ wouldn't allow him—

Harry's magic exploded out of his skin. The fire leapt from the hearth and took on the shape of a dragon, flying around the door, scorching the walls. The Slytherins shrieked as it swooped through the air. The torches flared, and fiery serpents slithered from them and down the walls. The portraits fled their frames, as many students were fleeing the common room. The shadows in the room stretched, eating away at the blazing creatures. Soon, all that was left untouched was the couch.

Upon which Daralise sat, her hand still stroking Harry's hair, eyes on her book. She didn't tremble. She didn't quake. She sighed, as if he were being histrionic. After rolling her eyes, she closed her book and set it on the arm of the couch. "Really, Harry?" She wasn't the least bit afraid, but she was tired; he could see it in her eyes now. It made him wonder what else he had missed over the years.

_Far too much_, he thought.

"Why?" he inquired.

Daralise narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips, a silent command to elaborate.

The battle to find words was vicious. Now that he comprehended what was going on—what had been happening for _so many years_—it took precise control to keep his magic from harming her. "Why didn't you say anything?" he demanded.

"And what was I supposed to say?" Her voice was emotionless, eyes reflecting back his image as if they were an empty mirror and nothing more.

"Anything! Everything!" Harry snapped. As soon as the words left his mouth, her left eyebrow winged upward. He winced. It wasn't proper for a pureblood witch to tell the wizard she loved of her feelings before he made an offer, or showed an overt amount of interest in her. Seeing as he had ignored protocol in regards to her since they were four years old, she would have assumed it was habit on his part . . . and she would've been right before his realization today. Daralise wouldn't have seen it as enough proof of his interest to broach the topic.

"Anything. Everything," she repeated, as if that would satisfy him. Her snark, which had amused him for over a decade, now cut to his heart.

"Dara . . ." Harry balled his hands into fists. "What if I hadn't figured it out? _What then?_" The words left his mouth with the force of the Unforgivable Curses.

"Then I would have bonded with Heir Nott the day after graduation," she stated. Her blue eyes were haunted now, as if even the thought of such an event made her wish she were dead.

Harry choked, rage rising and magic molten hot at the thought. Nott—seeing her hair down. Nott—buying her nightgowns. Nott—naming their children. "You can't be serious." She couldn't, could she? How could she ever bond with Nott when she loved _him_ so much that she allowed him to take innumerable liberties with her person?

"No, that's your father," she said, gaze dancing away from him.

"Dara, now's not the time for stupid jokes!" Harry sat up and swung one leg over her lap, pinning her against the couch with a hand on either side of her head. She wouldn't meet his eyes. "Look at me," he demanded. She ignored him. He took a deep breath and fought to retain control of his magic. "Dara, look at me," he begged. She acquiesced. "Why?" She didn't make him expound this time.

"Mother convinced Father that no wizard was worth waiting for, including the future Lord Black. If you didn't offer for me by the end of the school year, they said they were going to sign Heir Nott's contract," she whispered. Her hands were pressed against the couch so hard that they made indentions.

Harry collapsed forward, head landing on her shoulder. He inhaled the sweet scent of _Aristocracy_, a perfume he had created for her fourteenth birthday. She wore it every day, and he had never given it more than a smug thought that his gifts were the best. "Why didn't you give me your maiden's kiss?" he asked.

Daralise chuckled, and then burst into laughter that bordered on hysterical, shoulders shuddering. "One of your favorite topics of conversation is how much you hate all the pureblood customs, Harry. They stole your entire past, your origins and heritage from you. Do you really think I would ever consider binding you to me through a pureblood custom that would steal your future as well?"

No. She wouldn't do that. _My Dara would never do such a thing to me_.

Harry's magic edged closer and closer to them as he pondered on all that he might have lost: the right to shorten her elegant name to something fond and loving, the right to see her in all her glory, the right to father and name her children, the right to nestle against her and nuzzle her whenever he so desired. . . .

For Dara, to keep her, he could tolerate pureblood customs. _Only for her_.

Cupping her face, Harry swiped his thumbs under her eyes, as if to wipe away all of the tears he had never seen her cry over a deep love that she had believed was hopeless. "Heiress Black," he breathed, bequeathing his wife's title to her and fulfilling her most secret dreams, "your wait is at an end."

Daralise stared at him for a moment, as if she wasn't sure she had heard him right. When he didn't retract his statement, she threw herself forward. Harry managed to turn them just enough that he tumbled back onto the couch with her on top of him. "Mine!" she purred before placing her lips over his.

Harry felt her magic, which was just as Dark as his, pour out of her skin and settle over them. His leapt to join hers. It burned. It felt like someone had dumped them in a lake of lava . . . but he didn't care. Because her hands were deep in his hair, and his had just finished removing the pins from hers. It spread over them like a blanket of woven gold. Her lips devoured his with passion as he crushed her against him.

The ring on his right pinky scorched his skin as it melted off, before reappearing on her left ring finger. She pulled away from him to stare at it, eyes glistening. "Gold matches my hair; it's more expensive and rare. Why is it silver?"

Harry had to kiss her again for asking such a selfish and vain question. "Because Sirius has no taste." After kissing her again, he withdrew his lips enough to whisper, "I'll replace it with whatever makes you happy, Dara."

Dara's fair cheeks flushed as she looked away and mumbled, "I'm in your arms, Harry. What could possibly make me happier?"

Harry smirked. Finding something to make her happy? That sounded like a pathetic Gryffindor Quest. But seeing as his real father and Sirius Black were both Gryffindors, perhaps he would allow himself the inane sentiment . . . just this once.


	21. His Favorite Fosterling

**Title:** His Favorite Fosterling

**Pairing:** Lucius Malfoy/Jenavicia Potter

**Warnings:** AU—massively so, and dark themes.

* * *

Lucius Malfoy stroked the stem of his wine glass as he waited for his lunch companion. He focused on the shoppers who rushed past the front window of his preferred dining establishment: Avalon. The restaurant was suspiciously empty. His guest wouldn't have been able to come at all if it weren't the vernal equinox, and a Saturday. Though, to be fair, it would be more accurate to say that he was the guest in this situation, since he was the one who had been invited to lunch.

If anyone else had kept him waiting for even a minute, he would have left. Malfoys didn't wait on others. However, Lucius would tolerate the lack of respect from this male alone: James Potter. Knowing the Potter Heir, it was likely an attempt to try his patience and see if he would react well and behave circumspectly. Either that or James hoped he would get fed up and leave before they discussed the matter at hand: Jenavicia Potter.

She was . . . perfect. And his future wife. He didn't care what any of the other pureblood wizards thought, or what designs they had, because he wouldn't allow them to succeed. Jenavicia Potter had belonged to him since she was five years old, whether she knew it or not.

The year before he started at Hogwarts, Lady Dorea Potter had asked his mother Lucretia to foster her only daughter. Lucretia Malfoy had, of course, accepted. He remembered being surprised at first that a set of twins would be fostered separately, and then annoyed at the knowledge that he would get stuck entertaining the girl.

But then he met Jenavicia Potter, and everything changed.

She looked like the most expensive porcelain doll in the world. Her skin was smooth and ivory. Her eyes were a deep hazel that shone the color of gold in the sunshine. Her hair was thick and black as night, falling in a wavy tumble to her waist. As his mother cooed and fluttered around her, Jenavicia glanced at him and said, "You look prettier than I do!" His mother had laughed. He had blushed and found the pout on her face adorable.

It didn't take long for the façade of perfect innocence to be broken, though. Jenavicia was a hellion. She hated etiquette lessons, would sneak out to pet the Abraxans, and chased their prized ivory peacocks across the lawn. Other than the first time he ever saw her, he didn't remember seeing her clean and untouchable the rest of the year she spent with them.

The part that his parents still didn't know to this day, the part that he would never tell anyone, was that she had become his when she was only five. A little girl had wrapped him around her finger so tightly that he hadn't been able to escape in eleven years. Because the first night she was in the manor—and every subsequent night—she had snuck across the hall, entered his room, and crawled in his bed.

The first night it happened, he asked, "What are you doing here?" She was the eldest daughter of a pureblood family and should not have been in his bedchamber.

Jenavicia had glared, clambered on his bed, and said, "James isn't here to keep me warm. I guess you'll have to do." Then she grabbed his arm and dragged it over her like a blanket.

Before he could react, she had fallen asleep: her face innocent and slack. Knowing his mother would kill him if she ever found out, Lucius had still been unable to wake her and send her away when she looked so sweet. He had grumbled to himself that he would allow it for "just tonight", only for one night to turn into every night. Leaving for Hogwarts had been onerous, because he hadn't wanted to leave her behind. He had become so accustomed to her presence that his first year at Hogwarts was torture; by the time he returned home for Yule, she was ignoring him.

"What's wrong?" he asked her countless times. She didn't answer. The longer she ignored him, the more sick he felt. She wasn't supposed to pretend that he didn't exist! Didn't she understand how much he had missed her? It had been impossible to sleep without her little ball of warmth at his side. He'd developed a reputation for cursing anyone who bothered him, making even the older Slytherins wary around him.

That night she ran into his room and jumped on his bed, startling him awake. She smacked her little fists against his chest, tears falling from her aureate eyes. "You left me!" she yelled through her sobs.

"It's not like I wanted to leave!" he yelled back, anger making his voice harsh. Lucius couldn't help it though. Her accusation cut to the quick. His heart ached at the death of her smile; her eyes were haunted.

"Then why did you?" She sniffled and wiped her nose on the sleeve of her nightgown.

Instead of cringing, he chuckled. Jenavicia stilled and glared at him. "You think it's funny?"

"No," Lucius rushed to assure her. He didn't want to hurt her feelings any more than he already had. "I didn't have a choice," he replied in answer to her original question. It aggravated him that he had hated his first term at Hogwarts, when he had spent his entire childhood anticipating it. In less than one year, a five-year-old girl had upended his life.

"You have to go back soon," Jenavicia whispered, tears falling once more.

Lucius swallowed and hugged her close, so that he wouldn't be able to see them. "Yes."

"I won't be here when you get back next time," she said, fists clinging to his pajama shirt. "I'll be at home with Mama and Papa."

Yes, she would. Her fostering was going to end while he was at Hogwarts. When he came home for the short break in spring, she wouldn't be in the room across from his. She wouldn't be tromping through the flowerbeds, or coaxing the house-elves into playing games, or talking to the Abraxans as if they were people . . . It would be just him and his parents—alone again. Until she had appeared in his life, he hadn't even realized that he felt alone all the time. And now she was going to go away and leave him alone again. He loathed it.

As Jenavicia fell asleep in his arms that night, and he curled possessively around her, Lucius promised himself that he would find a way to keep her forever and never be alone again.

A hand landed on Lucius's shoulder, jerking him back to the present. He shoved his eighteen-inch elm wand in the intruder's throat before checking to see who had dared to touch him without permission. And, just his luck, it was James Potter. _Wonderful_, he sneered to himself. _Do continue to physically threaten the wizard who can utterly ruin your chances_. In the case of magical twins, the witch's parents didn't have last say in her suitors and bonding; her twin brother did.

"Not bad reflexes," James said. He had one ebony eyebrow lifted, as if Lucius had impressed him. His gaze was biting, though. Lucius had never seen a Gryffindor look so cold and heartless; they tended to be bright and upbeat.

"Thank you." He tucked his wand back into its holster. "Please have a seat."

James sat down across from him and tilted his head to the side, perusing Lucius's features. "I don't understand what she sees in you." Lucius bit his tongue. "I really don't. Sirius is kinder, closer to her age,"—Lucius fought a sneer—"and equally as well connected. He's head over heels for her, and she doesn't spare him a passing thought; it's like he doesn't even exist in her head." Lucius smirked. "But there are other interested parties, of course. So why, Heir Malfoy, would I ever approve of you?"

"Because she's mine," Lucius said without policing his thoughts.

Chuckling darkly, James shook his head. "How quaint." Lucius scowled; he didn't appreciate being patronized, especially not by a sixteen-year-old boy. "No, seriously, it's quite amusing that you believe that. Because you should have realized the truth by now, Heir Malfoy: Jenavicia belongs to _me_. She's my twin. She shares my magic. And even after she bonds, if I ever let her, her first loyalty will always be to me. Just as mine will always be to her."

Lucius gulped back the bile that rose in his throat. He had been expecting James to behave like a Potter—kind and honorable. He had never given much thought to how much Lady Dorea Potter, a Black by birth and infamous Slytherin, would have influenced her oldest son.

James put his elbows on the table and then rested his chin on his palms. "We're essentially the same person in two bodies. Giving permission for her to bond might as well be identical to saying that individual would be worthy of _me_. You're rich, but so are most purebloods. You're powerful, but so are most purebloods. You're not ugly, but then, most purebloods aren't."

With each item James listed, Lucius felt an unfamiliar emotion grow in his chest. Was this what desperation felt like? He wasn't sure, but he did know he never wanted to feel it again.

"So, for the final time, _Heir Malfoy_"—the title was mocking—"why should I entrust the most vulnerable part of myself to _you_?" inquired James. His smirk was shadowed by his fingers, but bespoke delight.

Lucius contemplated for several minutes, and then decided to gamble by telling the truth. He didn't think anything less would get him what he wanted. "Because I'm the only person who will ever love her as much as you do."

"Now that," James said, tongue clacking against his teeth, "is a very bold statement. Are you sure you want that to be your answer."

"Indeed," Lucius replied. He didn't know if it would be sufficient, but he couldn't see this somber wizard accepting anything else.

James waved away the waiter who was approaching their table and then stood. His features were twisted in an unspoken taunt as he leaned down and whispered in Lucius's ear. "This is your only warning, _Lucius_. Heed it. The first time that you hurt her, I'm going to take her away from you. I'll sever her bond with you and keep her by my side for the rest of our lives; you'll never see her or any children you might have ever again. As long as she's happy, you may borrow her. The instant she suffers at your hands, all of your privileges are revoked. Do you understand?"

For the first time in his life, Lucius was afraid of failing. He had never even considered the possibility of failure before. Now it would haunt him the rest of his life. He didn't disbelieve James's words in the least. No magic in the world superseded the power of a twin bond. The task James had set seemed insurmountable, but Lucius was going to accept it regardless. He loved Jenavicia; she was worth it. "I understand," he stated.

The air next to the table shimmered, and then Jenavicia was standing there. She was heart-achingly beautiful, as always. She folded what must be an invisibility cloak and handed it to her brother. "I told you he wasn't a coward."

"I'm still not convinced, Jen," James replied with a grin. "Maybe I wasn't scary enough?" He managed to make himself look like Heir Flint: gargoyle-esque and homicidal. "Is that better?"

Jenavicia chuckled. "You look hideous, James. Isadore will never give you the time of day if you wear that face."

James wiggled his eyebrows. "Who said I wanted the time of day? I'd much rather have her time of nigh—"

"James Potter!" Jenavicia slapped the back of his head. "Say that again and I'll convince her that you're in love with that Muggle-born who pants after you."

James sputtered. "You w-wouldn't dare!"

Lucius felt as if he were drowning. It had all been a joke? James's threat of stealing away his wife and children had been a tasteless joke? "You were joking," he stated, voice flat.

"Don't be simple, Lucius," Jenavicia chided him. Her eyes didn't hold the carefree innocence of her childhood, and were all the more enrapturing because of it. "Just because the public Potter family motto is _Honora usque in finem_, doesn't mean it's the one we hold closest to our hearts."

The public Potter family motto was very well known: Honor until the end. It was an accepted fact of pureblood culture that Potters never reneged on their word. "And what, may I ask, is the private Potter family motto?" he asked, unsure if they would tell him. After all, he wouldn't share the true Malfoy family motto with just anyone. . . .

"Ultionem plenissimam," James whispered. His words trembled with power.

Lucius made the translation from Latin back to English in his head: _Revenge to the fullest_. It was deliciously dark; he couldn't stop himself from appreciating it. "Then you were entirely serious earlier."

"Of course," James replied. He wrapped himself around Jenavicia and set his chin on her shoulder, so that their faces were side-by-side. "Harming Jenavicia is tantamount to harming me. Attacking me is attacking the future Lord Potter. Any assaults against the House of Potter are to be dealt with mercilessly."

"I would never intentionally harm her," Lucius said. The thought of causing his beloved Jenavicia any pain made him nauseous. He hadn't spent all this time waiting for her so that he could cause her suffering. He wanted to bring her pleasure of every kind.

"If I didn't believe that, she never would've removed the invisibility cloak," James stated. He kissed his sister's cheek. "It's the vernal equinox—a day for powerful bondings. You will return her to Hogwarts by tomorrow night. This is non-negotiable."

Lucius felt his heartbeat skyrocket at the amount of trust James was showing in him. Neither James nor Jenavicia turned seventeen for another week. He had expected to wait until at least Litha (Midsummer) night. Though, honestly, he had been prepared for James to announce that Jenavicia wouldn't bond before she had graduated from Hogwarts, as was the case with most pureblood witches. The thought of returning her to Hogwarts the day after their bonding wasn't pleasant, but it was better than waiting such a long time to officially claim her.

"I'll return her, safe and sound, to your side," Lucius promised. The words grated at his nerves; he didn't want her at any wizard's side but his. It appeared that a massive lesson in patience was headed his way.

James kissed Jenavicia's cheek again, and then looked in her eyes. They held a silent conversation, which ended with Jenavicia bowing her head and whispering, "You have my word."

"I'll see you tomorrow night, Jen. Be safe." Then without a word to Lucius, James took her hand and placed it in Lucius's before walking out of the restaurant.

Lucius rubbed his thumb across her silken knuckles. "This time you'll be the one leaving me behind." There were still almost three months of school left for her sixth year, and then all of her seventh year was ahead as well. It felt like an eternity, as if time itself were attempting to tear them apart and lead them down different paths. Lucius had never been one to bow to the whims of fate. He had stopped his parents from offering for Narcissa Black on his behalf, even though they were still upset about it, and nothing would change his mind. He only wanted Jenavicia Potter.

"And yet, I will still be missing you in my bed," Jenavicia said.

Lucius closed his eyes, pictured the little girl who had cried herself to sleep against his chest, and kissed her hand. "Not for long, beloved." Soon enough, his promise to himself would be fulfilled and he would never be alone again.

* * *

**Note:** I should just stop marking this collection "Complete". It resurrects itself every time I do. Anyone have pairing or situation requests?


	22. Pranks, Pups, and Potential

**Title:** Pranks, Pups, and Potential

**Pairing:** Viktor Krum/Harriet Potter

**Warnings:** Genderbend and fluff.

* * *

Harriet Potter sat in the stands at the Quidditch World Cup, enjoying the lack of attention. Who knew that a simple eye-corrective potion, a haircut, and clothes that actually fit would make her unrecognizable?

Sirius Black, obviously, since it had been his idea all along.

She still almost couldn't believe all of the changes that had occurred in her life over the past three months. Most amazing of all was that they had been positive! Her godfather had been cleared of all the false accusations, Pettigrew had been Kissed, and she no longer had to live with the Dursleys.

Since Hogwarts had closed for summer break, Harriet and Sirius had been able to live together. He had mentioned, in passing, selling his terrible childhood home in London. Then he had hired goblins to fix up the house in Godric's Hollow that her parents had been living in when they were attacked by Voldemort; he was determined to make good memories there, saying he wanted to do it right. She had seen him casting a spell that took several hours, and then heard him muttering about keeping the secret one hundred percent safe . . . but she still wasn't sure what he had meant.

"Enjoying the anonymity, Pup?" asked Sirius. He grinned at her.

Harriet nodded, a smile on her face. "Yes! It's nice that everyone isn't staring at me," she replied, unconsciously raising a hand to her forehead. Sirius had taught her a make-up glamour charm that covered the scar; not even a hint of it showed.

"Eh? That Krum's not bad," Sirius muttered before flagging down a wizard in yellow robes to place a bet.

Rolling her eyes at her godfather's compulsive gambling—he had a serious problem—she turned her attention back to the game. The Irish National Team was winning, but not because the Bulgarians were weak. In fact, the Bulgarians were flying brilliantly. It just seemed that luck favored the Irish, as amusing as that may be. However, Sirius was right about Krum. He was stunning, pulling maneuver after maneuver that she either hadn't mastered yet, or hadn't worked up the courage to attempt.

The sight of the Irish Seeker crashing into the turf and ripping the grass up in furrows made her wince. But more than she felt bad for the utter humiliation of the downed Seeker, she felt impressed with Krum's skills.

Ever since Harriet had come to the wizarding world, it seemed like everyone around her was lazy—except Hermione and the Ravenclaws. They never seemed to practice or apply themselves to anything. This made no sense to Harriet. It was magic! _Magic_! How could they not want to practice all day?

Seeing Krum swoop through the air, so quickly that smoke sometimes followed him, she couldn't help but flush a bit. Even a dunderhead would be able to tell that he was dedicated to Quidditch, and that he likely spent more time in the air than he did on the ground. She would guess that he was the type of man who looked weird walking, because nothing could match the grace of him on his broomstick.

The sound of Sirius cackling drew her gaze. He was rubbing his hands together. "Krum is definitely going to catch the Snitch. Money for me. Money for me. All to be spent frivolously!" he sang. Harriet snorted and grinned at her godfather. With the generous settlement from the Ministry of Magic for wrongful imprisonment, Sirius had splurged excessively. She hadn't known it was possible to splurge in excess, but he had done it. He had been forced to add additional rooms to the house just to hold all of the stuff that he bought her and himself. And despite the fact that he was overdoing it, she couldn't bear to tell him to stop. He had been in Azkaban for over ten years.

If he wanted to melt ten thousand Galleons in a cauldron and then bathe in it, she would just tell him it was a great idea.

Harriet went to push her hair behind her right ear, only for her fingertips to meet air. She blushed and glanced away, as if she hadn't just done that. It was a habit she had had for many, many years. Now, though, Aunt Petunia wasn't around to insist that she grow her hair out and wear it long. When Sirius had suggested she get a pixie cut, she had jumped at the chance: anything to be different and new. So now her hair was very short and soft. She loved it to death, but she still wasn't used to it.

She jolted back to the present when Viktor Krum went streaking past on his broom; he flew so quickly that the wind in his wake ruffled her hair. Harriet gasped, hands clenched together as she leaned forward in her seat. For a moment, she thought he was going to crash into the stands. He didn't. The Irish Seeker chased him, but he wasn't gaining much ground. The Snitch flapped closer to Krum, never evading him by much.

"You can do it," she whispered as Krum zipped past her again, going the opposite way. For just a second, she thought he heard her, because she would swear he glanced at her from the corner of his eye . . . but that's a silly notion. A professional Seeker would never take his eye off the Snitch, and especially not in the World Cup.

Then, between one blink and the next, he had it. Golden wings fluttered through the cage his fingers made; the announcer was screaming Ireland's victory, but spent the majority of his time describing how talented Viktor Krum was to catch the Snitch. Harriet knew she wouldn't have been able to get it, even with the Irish Seeker's injuries. At least, she didn't think she could. Maybe that was part of success? Maybe she needed to believe she would get it every time, no matter how long the odds were.

"Ready to leave, Pup?" Sirius asked, eyes sparkling. "I have money to collect. We should go for ice cream! No, gelato! Have you ever been to wizarding Italy? They have the best—"

A throat cleared beside her. Harriet looked up to see Viktor Krum hovering in the air, shoulders tense.

Harriet and Sirius had front row tickets, because "Marauders only deserve the best". She glanced toward Sirius, and then back to Krum; he was staring right at her. "Uh, can I help you?" _What could he possibly want with me?_

"For you." He opened his hand and thrust it toward her. The game's Snitch lay on his callused palm; it was still.

"Me?" she squeaked, cheeks reddening. He was giving her the Snitch? Why? It wasn't because she was the girl-who-lived, was it? But he was from Bulgaria or something. Would he even know who she was?

"For you," he repeated, thick brows drawn together in a scowl.

"Um, thank you?" It came out sounding like a question, but he didn't object. So Harriet took the Snitch from him. It was of much higher quality than the one they used at Hogwarts. She caressed it and slid it into her pocket.

Instead of leaving, Krum turned his intense gaze on Sirius. "You are being her father?" he asked.

Sirius's eyes narrowed. He glanced from Krum to her, and then he started snickering. "Godfather. But I am her guardian," he added, though Harriet couldn't understand why.

"Oh. I see," Krum said. He focused on Harriet for a moment, as if checking to see if she was still herself—which made even less sense than this entire bizarre encounter already did. (Ron was going to go crazy when he found out about this; she had met _Viktor Krum_!) After turning back to Sirius again, Krum said, "We are haffing much better ice cream in Germany than the Italians are haffing gelato."

_Huh? What did that have to do with anything?_

Smirking, Sirius nudged her with his elbow. "Well, Pup, what do you want? Ice cream? Gelato?"

Harriet wrinkled her nose. Was gelato like jell-O? Aunt Petunia had made her eat that for a month straight once, insisting she was overweight. It had been revolting. "Ice cream," she stated. Ice cream was delicious; it reminded her of the previous summer, when she had spent a great deal of time with Mr. Fortescue. He made her sundaes that ruined her appetite, and ice cream cones that wouldn't melt. She loved ice cream!

"Is seffen acceptable?" Krum asked Sirius.

Sirius chuckled as her head swung between them. "Seven is perfect."

"Perfect for wh—?" Before she could finish her question, Krum flew forward and hooked an arm around her waist. He hefted her into the air as if she didn't weigh anything, and then plopped her on his lap, one arm wound around her waist. _What in the world is happening?_

"Enjoy your first date! Have fun! Be safe!" Sirius yelled as he waved his hand enthusiastically through the air. "See you later, Pup. Remember . . . never kiss on the first date!"

She was so stunned at the words escaping Sirius's mouth that she didn't even blush. She sat still, shocked, as Viktor slid a chain over her neck. Before she could offer a protest, or even really understand what was happening, Krum had spoken and a hooking sensation caught her stomach. The force of the Portkey shoved her back against his chest, causing him to tighten his grip.

They reappeared beneath a sky that was pale purple, the sun just starting to set. Oh, right. Wasn't Germany an hour ahead? Wait, Germany? She was in Germany with someone she had spoken less than ten words to. What the heck?

"Vot is being your fafforite ice cream?" Krum asked, as if he hadn't just basically kidnapped her (with her godfather's permission) to another country for a _date_ she hadn't agreed to.

But when she opened her mouth, a tirade didn't spill out. Neither did hysterical protests. Instead, Harriet said, "Chocolate."

Krum smiled against her neck. "Mine is also being chocolate." He chuckled as he steered them down toward the skyline. "Yes, I think is vorking very vell."

Sighing, Harriet leaned her full weight against his chest. He only tightened his hold again. She had no idea what he was talking about, but decided it would be best to not try and understand the lunacy of the past five minutes. She would just let Viktor Krum—the world-famous Seeker—take her out for chocolate ice cream, and then forget this ever happened.

Because there was no chance Sirius was _serious_ about Krum's intentions. This couldn't be a real date . . . could it?


	23. Nights With a Knight

**Title:** Nights With a Knight

**Pairing:** Ron Weasley/Heloise Potter

**Warnings:** AU-HBP, genderbend, minor angst, and minor sexual implications.

* * *

Heloise Potter didn't know when it had started. After all, it wasn't easy to pinpoint the exact moment love began to blossom in a heart. Was it when he asked to sit with her on the Hogwarts Express without knowing she was the girl-who-lived? Was it when he took the place of a knight on a giant chessboard and sacrificed himself so that she could continue on? Was it when he had hugged her desperately after she pulled little Ginny Weasley out of the Chamber of Secrets: alive, but drained.

Or had it started later than that?

Perhaps it was when he helped her sneak out of Hogwarts in third year, so that she could see Hogsmeade and understand all the hype. Perhaps it began when he stood next to her during the Triwizard Tournament, even though almost everyone else in the school turned against her. Perhaps it solidified inside her when he fought Death Eaters with her in the Department of Mysteries and managed to save Sirius's life. Perhaps, just perhaps, it was now undeniable because Voldemort was finally dead, the Death Eaters were imprisoned, and the danger was gone . . . as much as danger could ever be gone.

Heloise didn't know when she started falling in love with Ron Weasley. She couldn't call up a single memory and honestly declare, "That was it!" Maybe she had always been falling in love with him.

However, what Heloise did know was the day that the dreams commenced. It was a day she would never forget—February 24, 1995. It was the day that revealed her greatest strength (and, in turn, weakness) to everyone present at the second task of the Triwizard Tournament. Ron Weasley was her most important person—her most precious connection.

"Two years today," she whispered.

"What did you say, Heloise?" Hermione asked.

"Nothing," Heloise replied as she finished braiding her long, black hair.

"Mmm." Hermione turned her attention back to her letter, and Heloise scowled. She recognized the owl and parchment; it was a missive from Viktor Krum. And while Hermione certainly had the right to send letters to him, it still irked Heloise. After all, wasn't Heloise suffering in silence and hiding her feelings for Ron—her best friend—because Hermione had confessed last year that she fancied him. Yet, despite that late night confession, here Hermione was, owling Viktor Krum. Still.

Honestly, Heloise didn't understand Krum's appeal in the least. He was shorter than most wizards, and his features weren't pleasant. He waddled like a duck. His personality wasn't dazzling. His greatest attribute was his skill at Quidditch, but since Hermione didn't even like Quidditch (and constantly said it was a waste of time that Ron and Heloise could spend studying) she didn't understand what kept Hermione interested.

On days when Heloise's heart hurt from keeping in her true feelings for Ron, she viciously wondered if Hermione were interested in Viktor because he was a famous pureblood. One who had bothered to ask a mere Muggle-born to the Yule Ball.

She hated having those thoughts about her dear friend, but that didn't stop them from continuously appearing.

Ron had finally grown out of the awkward, gangly stage, but Heloise had liked him when he was skittish like a colt and kept tripping over himself. His voice had settled deep, a strong bass, but Heloise hadn't minded when his voice still cracked and squeaked. His hair had ended up a dark scarlet, but she hadn't minded the light ginger color of when she had first met him. Ron was Ron; that was all that mattered to her.

Heloise tossed her brush on her bed and grabbed her bag; she slung it over her shoulder. She hated all the attention Ron received now that he was fully grown. Where were all those witches before he became devastatingly fit? Where were they when he had no confidence and drowned in the shadow of his brothers' legacy? Where were they before he became heralded as a hero in the battle that defeated You-Know-Who?

Sneering, Heloise marched toward the door. She was the one who had always stood by Ron. Who did they think they were to intrude now?

"I'm heading to breakfast," Heloise said, voice soft as she glanced over her shoulder. She hoped Hermione wouldn't hear it.

"Oh! I'll come with you," said Hermione. She grinned brightly and set down her letter. "Viktor's doing wonderful, by the way. He said 'Hello'."

Heloise forced a smile on her face. Viktor always said 'hello' to her in his letters. Sometimes she wondered if he was writing Hermione solely so he would be able to say that to her. Was he hoping for a formal introduction? Or for Heloise to get curious and write him? Hermione had told her more than once that he asked about her friends, Heloise in particular. If Viktor was using Hermione as a way to get closer to her, it wasn't going to work. Whether he liked her or not, she was emotionally unavailable.

"That's nice," replied Heloise. Hermione's lips pinched at the customary response, but she didn't mention it. She had finally caved to the fact, unwillingly, that Heloise never returned his greetings.

Hermione pulled her bag off the foot of her bed. "Well, let's go then. Ron's probably dying of hunger by now." She brushed past Heloise and hurried down the stairs; Heloise sighed and followed her. She didn't like fighting with Hermione, but the topic of Viktor always seemed to set her off. Hermione was intelligent; maybe she was beginning to suspect that Viktor was interested in Heloise and not her?

"Morning." It was a rough, tired grunt.

Glancing up with a smile at the familiar sound, Heloise halted on the last stair. Hermione was beaming up at Ron, sunlight falling through the windows in the common room and making her hair look like chocolate. She was beautiful without trying. Ron returned the smile and, oh, how that hurt. She put a hand over her heart, as if that could stifle the pain. What a silly, useless gesture.

"All right there, Elle?" asked Ron, attention focused on her hand.

If it had been anyone else asking, she would have forced a 'yeah' out, despite it being a lie. However, Heloise had never been able to bring herself to lie to Ron. It would be too much like lying to herself . . . and she had seen how much damage that did to a person firsthand—the Dursleys were good for teaching her some things, at least.

"She's fine," Hermione said before heading toward the portrait hole. "Let's go. We don't want to miss breakfast and be late for class!" She left.

Ron took a step toward her in the now-empty common room. "Elle?" The sound of her name on his lips made her shiver. He was the only one who could call her that, and she didn't even have to ensure it. Ron had hexed the living daylights out of Creevey in second year, and a few others as well. People eventually got the message that he was possessive about the nickname. Heloise always assumed it was because—with how large his family was—he wanted something to himself, even if it was only a nickname.

_Wishing for him to have different motivations won't change anything_, she thought. She was his best mate, and it seemed like she would have to be content with that distinction. Having a place in his life, even if it wasn't the one she desired, would have to be enough.

"Elle?" His voice was worried as he strode toward her.

Heloise shook her head and stepped down to the floor. "Sorry, Ron. I just didn't sleep well last night." It was the two-year anniversary of the day that they started: the dreams.

He nudged her chin until she was staring up at him. He'd topped off at six-three, making her feel short, even though five-six was average. "Glamour charms?" he asked. His thumb brushed under her right eye.

Holding her breath, Heloise scolded herself for reading into his actions. He was just worried about his friend; he didn't understand what he was doing to her. That didn't stop her heart rate from shooting through the roof. "A girl's best friend," she said.

"Oi!" He stared at her, affronted. "I thought I was your best friend."

Chuckling, Heloise leaned her forehead against his chest. The steady beat of his heart hurt. . . . His heart didn't race in her presence, as hers raced in his. She swallowed back tears and whispered, "Don't be a dunderhead. You haven't been replaced, Ron."

"Of course not." His chest puffed up. "What could a glamour charm do that I can't?"

_Make me pretty_ appeared on the tip of her tongue, but she didn't say it. It wasn't true, after all. She had photographs with her and Ron, and the smile on her face and the sparkle in her eyes when she looked at him in them took her breath away. How could anyone ever look at those pictures and not realize that she was hopelessly in love with him? Her every gesture betrayed her. As far as she knew, though, she had the only copies. Since they were so special to her, she couldn't indulge in viewing them very often. The last thing she wanted was for her nosy roommates to wonder what held her attention so fiercely.

"Well?" he demanded, one arm sliding around her shoulders in a half-hug.

"Nothing, Ron. Nothing," she said.

"Exact—" Ron stopped speaking as his stomach growled. She peered up to see a light dusting of pink on his cheeks. "Uh, breakfast?" he asked sheepishly, eyes darting from hers to their surroundings, and then back.

"Still growing?" she teased, unable to help herself. That was the excuse he had used ever since she had known him. It was a kinder truth than the knowledge that, before Hogwarts, neither of them had known when their next meal was coming, or how much they would get to eat. Mr. Weasley worked hard to provide for his family, but Ginny had whispered to her one night about a couple of years where things were especially rough, before her father received the promotion, and food was scarce.

"Yeah, still growing," he replied.

There was a dark cast to his face that she didn't like. He rubbed his arm, fingers tracing over the scars the brains had left. "What's wrong, Ron?" she whispered. She knew him and his moods inside and out. This wasn't like him.

"I . . ." Ron stared down at her, eyes roaming her face as if he wanted to memorize the features. "Breakfast?"

The non sequitur stung, but she conceded defeat. If he didn't want to share his thoughts with her, that was his choice. She wouldn't nitpick. Ron had a right to his privacy, just like everyone else did. "Okay," she whispered. She hated how quiet her voice was, and Ron must've too, because he winced and tightened his grip on her shoulders.

"Let's go eat," he said. He steered her from the room in silence, leading the way down to the great hall for breakfast. Something felt off, but Heloise wasn't sure what it was, so she kept silent. After what felt like an eternity, Ron heaved a sigh and stopped. "Hey, Elle?"

"What?" She glanced up at him. His eyes were troubled, but his face was resolute.

"I . . . I was—"

"Potter, can I have a word?"

Heloise bit her tongue to keep from cursing as Ron folded in on himself. His eyes blanked, only to then flare with protectiveness. "No," he said to the interloper.

"I didn't ask you, Weasley. Potter, can I have a word?" The words didn't hold the bite typical of most Slytherins.

"What do you want, Nott?" she asked. She wanted to hex Nott for interrupting, but that would be immature. She felt like she and Ron had been on the cusp of something, like he was finally going to confide in her . . . only for Nott to kill the words before they could be spoken.

"A moment of your time. In private, please," he said. His eyes were focused on her, as if Ron were irrelevant, or perhaps didn't exist at all. She didn't like it.

"No," Ron repeated. "She's not going anywhere with you alone." There was a sharp edge to his voice, more jagged than usually appeared when confronted by a Slytherin in the corridors.

Nott cocked an eyebrow. "And Weasley speaks for you?" He crossed his arms.

Fighting back the urge to scream in frustration as she felt a headache roiling, Heloise said, "Please, Nott, just tell me what you want." It took a great deal of control to keep her tone polite. She didn't have anything against Nott; he had never bothered or harassed them like Malfoy had. However, that didn't mean she looked favorably upon him. Especially not since he had just intruded on something she didn't understand.

Nott straightened his shoulders and clasped his hands behind his back. "I formally request—"

"Her answer is no," Ron snapped before Nott could finish speaking.

The pain in her head spiked, and Heloise gasped. She squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her hand over them.

"Potter, are you all right?"

"Elle? Another one? Come on," Ron said. "I'll get you back to bed."

"You most certainly will not!" Nott snapped. He stomped forward.

Ron scooped her up in his arms, and Heloise hated that her head hurt so much that she couldn't enjoy it. She buried her head against his shoulder and wished the pain would vanish. It would, she knew, but not for hours. The lack of sleep was getting to her, and now it was time for her to pay the price. She should have known better than to take so many Pepper-Up Potions. Trying to stave off the dreams for a week was idiotic. But it had seemed like a good idea at the time. Waking up from the dreams was hell—a living nightmare. Why would she ever want to leave them if it meant that Ron wasn't hers?

Heloise fisted her hands in his robes, as if such a weak grip could keep him by her side forever.

"Yes, I will," Ron retorted before striding back the way they had come, Heloise clutched to his chest.

She could hear footsteps chasing after them. "Weasley, what in the world do you think you're doing? Put her down now!" Nott yelled.

"Piss off, Nott!" Ron snapped back without slowing in the least.

"Weasley, I'm warning you—"

"Nott," Ron said, voice soft and cutting, "Elle's not feeling well. Now would be a really good time to not make me angry."

The footsteps halted. "I can't just let you—"

"And how are you going to stop me, huh? Do you hear Elle protesting? Because I sure as hell don't. But since you won't take my word for it . . . Elle," Ron whispered, "do you want me to put you down?"

_No!_ her mind screamed. She felt safe and warm. She felt loved and cared for by the man that had no idea of her feelings, and he likely wouldn't return them even if he did know of them. She was his best friend, perhaps an honorary sister of sorts. She wasn't going to delude herself into believing he thought she was the love of his life, despite her own feelings on the matter. "Take me to bed, Ron," she said, loud enough that Nott could hear. When Nott gasped and Ron stutter-stepped, she realized exactly how that might have sounded to the two boys. But she didn't take her words back or add a disclaimer. She just felt grateful that neither of them could see her burning cheeks.

"See? Her answer's no," Ron said as he continued down the corridor.

Nott didn't say anything in response, and Heloise didn't care. Even if he spread rumors about her and Ron, she wouldn't mind. She loved him. Maybe if Ron heard his name linked with hers in a romantic sense it might spark a new kind of love for her. _Wishful thinking_, she sneered to herself.

"Ron?"

"We're almost there, Elle," Ron replied as he carried her up to the portrait of the fat lady. He didn't huff or puff, and he hadn't cast a featherlight charm on her. The affirmation of his physical strength caused her mouth to dry. He was so . . . Ron.

"Password?" the fat lady asked.

"Malfoy's a git," Ron said with relish. Heloise had laughed when he told her what it was for the next two weeks. Hermione frowned at his choice for the new password, and berated him, but Heloise adored it. He wouldn't be the man she loved if he didn't do such things.

Heloise turned her head as he entered the common room. He carried her up the stairs to the boys' dorm room, but she didn't mind. It wasn't like she or Hermione had never been up here before. He set her down on his bed, after shoving some stuff off onto the floor. "You all right to change by yourself?" he asked, voice inflectionless.

"And if I say 'no'," she asked, unable to resist teasing him even with the pain in her head.

"Then I'll help," said Ron, voice blank. It was the absence of any emotion that made her flinch. No teasing, no blushing—nothing.

"I can do it," Heloise said, wishing she hadn't opened her big mouth in the first place. The blankness felt too much like rejection, and she already felt alone enough in this love.

Ron nodded and grabbed his Quidditch jersey off the back of a nearby chair. "Here you go." He handed it to her and then turned around. "I promise I won't look, but I'm not leaving when you might pass out."

Heloise gritted her teeth against the pain as she removed her robes, skirt, and blouse. She wanted to tell him that she didn't want a promise like that. She didn't want him to look—not yet, because they weren't married. But she wanted him to _want_ to look. _Silly, stupid heart_ . . . _you're killing me_. She donned his Quidditch jersey and buried her face in the fabric, inhaling his scent. It was male and home.

She flopped back onto the bed and then hissed. "Bad idea."

"I'll say," Ron muttered, having spun around quickly when she hissed in pain. He knelt on the floor and pulled off her shoes and socks. "Scoot up," he ordered, gaze on her face.

_He's not even glancing at my legs_, Heloise thought as she obeyed, heart sinking in her chest. _It hurts, Mum. It hurts so much_. She faced the window, so that he wouldn't see the tears in her eyes.

Ron lifted the covers over her and then closed the bed-curtains. "Sleep as long as you need, Elle. I'll make sure the guys don't bother you."

"Thank you," she whispered as he muttered an excessive amount of locking and protection charms.

"You're welcome." Ron leaned over and kissed her forehead, which he only did when she was sick. Pathetically, it made her wish she were ill more often. _The masochism must come from Dad_, she thought.

The door clicked shut behind Ron, and she let the tears fall. Being in love was supposed to be grand and perfect—a fairytale. Yet here she was, princess of the wizarding world, living in a real life castle, and her literal knight, who had saved her many times, hadn't asked for her hand. "What is wrong with me?" she cried against Ron's pillows. She hugged one of the pillows to her chest and breathed in his scent once more.

Here Heloise was, in his bed, as she dreamed to be, but it was nothing like her dreams. He wasn't here. She wasn't in his arms. They . . .

Exhausted, sleep claimed her for the first time in a week; the dreams she had been so desperate to evade consumed her.

"Sweetheart?" Ron asked, blue eyes bleary with sleep as he wrapped an arm around her protruding waist. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, Ron. The baby kicked," Heloise said. Her grin was so wide that it hurt her face.

"What? Really?" Ron shot up in bed, sending the blankets tumbling to their waists. His chest was bare and smooth, muscular, and the scars on his arms stood out in sharp relief "Can I feel?" He didn't even wait for a response—not that she would deny his request—before sliding one massive hand over her baby bump.

"Not there, Ron. Over here." Heloise took his hand and slid it across her stomach, up near her chest. The baby was fond of kicking her ribs, it seemed. She felt the soft thump again.

"It kicked me!" Ron said, the awe on his face beautiful to see. He had been over the moon since she found out that she was pregnant with their first child. Contrary to everyone's assumptions, he hadn't fainted when she told him. It was, perhaps, the only bet that Fred and George had ever lost. He had put his hand over her stomach as if she were made of glass, and the happiness and sheer, utter delight radiating from him had only been topped by the day she bonded with him.

Heloise chuckled. "It kicked me, too."

Ron grinned dopily and pointed at her stomach. "Oi, don't hurt your mum. She loves you. And so do I." He leaned down and kissed her stomach, right over where the baby was kicking.

She ducked her head, eyes teary. "So I was thinking . . . if it's a boy we could name him James Sirius?" Her father had died to keep her safe, and that was the ultimate sacrifice any father could make. She wanted to honor his name. Sirius had done his best by her once he escaped from Azkaban, and since he and her dad had been like brothers, it seemed fitting to put their names together.

"And we'll call the girl Lilith Heloise," Ron whispered. He cupped her cheek. "They'll have a better fate than your parents, Elle. I swear it. We'll keep them safe."

"Them?" she asked, trying to shove her mother's dying screams from her mind. They resurfaced with frequency these days, as if history was destined to repeat itself. She knew they wouldn't let it. Her children would have both of their parents. Nothing else was acceptable.

"Well they're twins, of course," Ron said, staring at her with a grin and quirked eyebrow.

"W-what?" He was kidding right? "Did Fred and George put you up to this?" she demanded. Twins? No way!

"A Weasley always knows," Ron said, his nose in the air reminiscent of Draco Malfoy. "Our son and daughter are in there," he breathed reverently as he smothered her stomach in kisses.

"Yeah?" she asked dazedly.

Ron nodded with certain determination. "Yeah, Elle. Twins."

"Oh." She blinked repeatedly as the thought processed. Twins. Two children—two miracles—that were part of Ron and herself. Her heart caught in her throat. "That's . . ." Heloise had no words for what that was.

"Yeah," Ron said, agreeing with her wordless wonder.

A wicked idea entered her head, and Heloise walked her fingers up her husband's scarred arm. "They'll need brothers and sisters, of course," she purred. "Lots of brothers and sisters."

Ron's Adam's apple bobbed in his throat as heat flared through his blue eyes. "You're evil, Elle."

Then, before she could respond, he _kissed_ her. And passion devoured her.

Heloise's eyes opened to blackness. She breathed deeply and relaxed, remembering where she was: Ron's bed in the sixth-year boys' dorm. The agony in her chest was worse than ever before. Her fingernails dug into her chest, as if she could rip the pain of unrequited love from her heart. Once again, reality destroyed her happiness. Only, it was worse this time. Because she was lying in the bed of the man she loved, and they weren't married, she wasn't pregnant, and he wasn't safely wrapped around her.

Bitter questions wanted to spill from her lips. _Why me? What did I do to deserve this? Why aren't I good enough? What will it take for you to love me? What do I need to change?_

She didn't voice any of them as she threw back the covers and swung her feet over the side of the bed. Heloise Potter was in love with Ron Weasley, and self-pitying questions weren't going to change that. It wasn't going to stop the pain in her heart. They served no purpose, so she refused to entertain them.

Brushing aside the bed-curtains, she stepped into the room. Starlight shone through the window; the boys hadn't bothered to draw the drapes. Loud snoring flooded the room. Now that she was outside the bespelled curtains, she could hear it. If they were asleep, then she must have slept all day.

Heloise stared at the door, as if it would open to admit a little boy and girl with messy black hair and cerulean blue eyes. It stayed shut. "They're not real," she reminded herself once again. No matter how much she had come to love them, to know them, to cherish them—they were nothing more than figments of her imagination.

Tears gathering in her eyes, Heloise walked to the door, desperate to escape the remnants of her dream world. She opened it, stepped through, and then closed it behind her. She collapsed back against it, shoulders shaking, and _wished_ . . . but it was useless. Wishes didn't come true—not even in the magical world. She didn't have a fairy godmother. She had a furry godfather. And while she knew Sirius would gladly threaten Ron into marrying her and making her happy, she didn't want that. She wanted Ron willing, or not at all.

Ron's face appeared in her mind, lips wide with a dopey grin she had come to associate with their imaginary married life. "I need to find him and send him to bed," she decided. He must be exhausted by now. Especially since it was a Potions day. Snape would've been even more horrid than normal, seeing as his favorite victim—her—wasn't present.

Heloise started down the stairs, and then froze on the last step for the second time that day. Her heart was in her throat as she stared at the scene in the common room. Ron was stretched out on the longest couch, the one before the fireplace, in a pair of pajama pants and nothing else. But his sculpted physique wasn't what held her attention. No—the magical firelight display he was conducting accomplished that. Ron muttered, hand twitching in different directions, and streams of flame from the fireplace leapt out into the air to spell words.

It was very similar to the Black family tapestry, only there weren't any pictures. It was, without a doubt, a genealogy of the Weasley family. As she watched, his name appeared beneath his parents', followed by 'Ginevra'. Then, hand shaking, he drew a line sideways from his name and placed 'Heloise Potter' at the end of it.

She lifted a trembling hand and set it over her quivering lips. In pureblood tapestries that meant . . .

Next, hand shaking even more than it was before, Ron swished his wand, drawing more lines in the air; these ones came down from the line linking her name with Ron's. Not long later, two more names appeared in the air and danced over to settle beneath the new lines, which were also connected. The names were: James Sirius Weasley and Lilith Heloise Weasley.

Ron reached the hand not holding his wand out toward the flaming tapestry. His fingers stopped just shy of touching the names of their children. Heloise lost it. She burst into tears and ran toward him; as she did, he jumped off the couch and spun around and dropped into a defensive posture. The flames vanished.

Heloise crashed into his chest and burrowed as close to him as she could, arms wrapping around his waist. "Y-you see th-them," she sobbed. Her fingernails scratched his back, but he didn't complain. He didn't say anything. He just shook. "You see them, r-right?" He had to see them! How else would he know their names? Did he have the dreams, too? He must! How else could he possibly know the names of their children?

"E-Elle?" Ron asked tentatively. "Are you okay?" He turned around and sat down, pulling her onto his lap. It should have felt new, but it didn't. She had sat the same way an innumerable amount of times in the dreams.

"Tell me you see them, Ron!" Heloise demanded.

Ron glanced away. "I don't know what—"

"Don't lie to me," she bit out. "Leave, if you must. Stay silent, if you must. Ignore me, if you must. But please, Ron, I'm begging you . . . don't lie to me."

Ron flinched and bowed his head. "Yes, Elle, I see them. They h-have your black hair and m-my blue e-eyes." He visibly gathered himself and then looked her straight in the eye. "I'm sorry for upsetting you. I didn't mean to. I was just . . . _wishing_," he breathed. "It won't happen aga—"

She was not going to let him finish that sentence. She didn't know why he was apologizing. She didn't know why he was so hesitant to discuss this topic. She didn't know, and she _didn't care_. Heloise didn't care why he had flinched, or why he thought she would be angry, or that Hermione fancied him. None of that mattered to her. Because all she could see was his trembling hand reaching out to lovingly stroke their children's names. He loved and wanted them as much as she did, and that was all she needed to garner her courage.

Heloise leaned forward and kissed him. When he didn't respond, she nibbled his bottom lip, as she had seen in the dreams. Ron gasped, and she deepened the kiss. When he finally started to react, she pulled back. His eyes scorched her.

"Elle?" His voice was grittier than usual.

"I want them," she said fiercely. "I want them both. And I . . . Ron . . ." She wiped away the tears. "But mostly," she whispered, "I want you." She stared deep into his eyes. "I've always wanted you."

Ron reached into his pocket and pulled out a small bag that she had seen him fiddling with for years now. He handed it to her. Brow furrowed, Heloise tugged the drawstring and opened the pouch. She dumped it upside-down and caught the object inside with her palm. It was black marble, a specific type she would never forget; she saw it every time the memory of Ron sacrificing himself as her knight replayed in her mind. It was, in fact, carved to look like a knight chess piece. It was also, she realized, a ring.

"R-Ron?"

His hands entered her line of sight, took the ring from her, and slid it on her left ring finger. "Marry me." It wasn't a question. It wasn't a request. It was a statement—almost a command. She was okay with that.

She glanced up into his eyes. "Yeah?" she asked.

Ron nodded. "Yeah."

Heloise kissed him again, lingeringly, and then tucked her head under his chin as he hugged her against him. She listened to the desperate thudding of his heart—like thunder and lightning—and could only imagine hers beat just as fast. She stared at the firelight, which had revealed the truth, and relaxed into him. Her knight had asked for his princess's hand. Who was she to deny him?


	24. Of Caresses and Constellations

**Title:** Of Caresses and Constellations

**Pairings:** Draco Malfoy/Hadara Potter and Lucius Malfoy/Narcissa Malfoy

**Warnings:** AU, drama, flirting, and sensual implications.

**NOTE:** This is the much-requested sequel to "Of Tresses and Tenderness". If you haven't read that, go read it!

* * *

Hadara Potter blushed and shifted her weight from one leg to the other and then back again. She clutched the invisibility cloak more tightly around herself. The last thing she wanted to do was be caught standing outside the door to the Head Boy's dorm. But, well, Draco Malfoy—her fiancé—was in there. And, as pathetic as it might seem . . . she couldn't sleep without him.

They had only been engaged for two months now. Two blasted months!

And in that time she had gotten so used to the feeling of his magic wrapping around her that it scared her when it was gone. It had been tolerable the first month or so, but as time passed, it distressed her more and more. Until, two months into their engagement, she couldn't stand it anymore. The moment that Draco fell asleep each night, the magic shield he constantly encased her in failed—due to the distance separating them. Her dorm in the top of Gryffindor tower was too far from his Head Boy dorm down in the dungeons for his subconscious mind to control the shielding.

She had taken to going to bed early in the evening, so that she would be able to sleep as long as possible before he fell asleep. Because the moment sleep claimed her fiancé, Hadara would wake with a start, wand in hand, positive that she was under attack. The swift death of feeling safe grated on her nerves, and tonight had been the final straw.

Hadara shuddered as she remembered the shriek Lavender had emitted when she had inadvertently fired a curse at her as she awoke. She didn't ever want that to happen again. It was humiliating, as well as terrifying.

Sneaking out of the dorm after everyone was asleep was simple; she had more than enough practice doing that over the years. However, she wasn't sure if she had the courage, despite being a Gryffindor, to follow through on her plan. She shifted her weight again, and then sighed and shook her head. If she didn't get some quality sleep soon, then she wouldn't be able to function at all. She was stunned that Draco hadn't called her out on the glamour charms yet. But she didn't think he would hold his tongue much longer; each day he grew increasingly protective and glared at the skin under her eyes, as if he could see right through the charms.

The door handle was a sculpture of a serpent—no surprise there given the part of the castle she was in. All it would take was one word . . . and then she would be safe and able to sleep. "_Open_," she hissed. The doorknob twisted, the door opened, and she stepped inside before shutting it behind her.

A door in the far wall opened just moments later. Draco crossed the threshold with narrowed eyes, his wand brandished threateningly. "Only a fool would think it wise to slip through my wards," he snarled, eyes darting around the room.

"Do you want me to leave?" Hadara whispered. She was starting to rethink her whole adventure. Intruding on her fiancé's personal space, using Parseltongue to get past the wards . . . what had she been thinking? _That sleep would be nice. That I want to feel safe_.

Draco twitched, and then dropped his wand arm to his side. "Hadara?" he asked carefully, gaze scanning the room.

"Do you want me to leave?" she repeated. Seriously, what had she been thinking? Draco was busy being Head Boy, and he had so many family responsibilities, among other things. She should have left him alone to get the sleep he surely needed.

"No!" he said. "No, of course not." He glanced around the room again. "Where are you?"

"Oh, sorry." Hadara released her grip on the invisibility cloak and shrugged, sending it tumbling to the floor. Draco gasped and stared at her. It was only then that she realized she had rushed down to the dungeons in her nightgown. She had on a pair of thin white slippers, which matched her fitted chemise nightgown, and her hair was only loosely braided, stopping at the back of her knees. When he didn't say anything, she blushed and took a step toward him. "Draco?"

His attention returned to her face with alacrity. "Y-yes?" he stuttered, before swallowing.

Words failed her for a second, but she marshaled them together. She hadn't come all this way for nothing. Hadara folded her arms around her waist and inquired, "Can I sleep here?" She spun to face the dying fire before adding, "With you?"

"I-I . . ."

Draco wasn't one to stammer. The inconsistency made her turn back around. Indecision warred on his face, causing her chest to hurt. Oh, so it was like that. Foolishly, she had hoped for a resounding 'yes'. It didn't seem like that would be the case. He seemed to be fighting for the words to politely deny her request without hurting her feelings.

"You don't want me here," she whispered, hands fisting. "I-I see. I'm sorry for bothering you, Draco. I'll just leave and we can pretend—"

"No!" he yelled, wand clattering to the floor as he leapt forward and grabbed her arm gently before she could leave. "That's not it, love. Of course I want you here," he breathed. "Why . . . ?"

When he put his hand under her chin and nudged her face up so that she had to meet his gaze, she felt tears well in her eyes. She felt so weak, and she hated it. She was a Gryffindor, the girl-who-lived, the Conqueror, and she felt more fragile than that crystal vase of Aunt Petunia's she had broken when she was eight years old. It had shattered into so many pieces that she still occasionally found one when she swept or vacuumed to this day.

"I'm scared," she admitted. Her confession was so soft that she wasn't sure if he had heard it.

Draco pulled her against his chest and wordlessly Summoned his wand back to his hand, before sliding it into the holster on his forearm. "Why?" His voice was harsh and vicious.

She felt his magic reach out and encase her from head to toe; it was thicker than normal, and she breathed a sigh of relief as she collapsed against his chest. "When you fall asleep, the shields fall," she said. "And I feel open and raw to the world. I . . ." Morgana, she sounded so weak and pathetic. "I never feel safe without them. And if any of the guys are around . . ." Hadara shuddered as she remembered how terrified she felt when she was sitting in the common room earlier this week well before dawn and Seamus Finnegan wandered down the stairs.

Draco's magic flared so brightly that the embers in the fireplace turned into a conflagration—heat soaring into the chilly room. "What?" he choked out.

"I'm sorry." She squeezed her eyes shut. "I'm being ridiculous. I shouldn't have bothered you. I'll just go—"

"Absolutely not," Draco said, voice darker than she had ever heard it in her life. "You can stay." The words had layers to them, as if he couldn't believe he was saying them. "Of course you can stay, love. Come on." He kissed her forehead, tangled his fingers with hers, and then led her into his bedroom. As he passed over the threshold, he placed his hand on a sconce; golden light started at the ceiling and spilled down the walls, before coating the floor. Wards of some kind, no doubt.

His bedroom was large and elegant. She didn't expect any less from him; he was endearingly snobbish about things like that. 'Malfoys deserve nothing less than the best.' It seemed to be the unofficial Malfoy family motto. He led her over to the bed; the bedcovers were already thrown back, likely from his quick exit when she had set off the wards.

"In you go," Draco said, voice husky.

"Thank you for letting me stay, Draco," Hadara said as she got in his bed. A blush colored her cheeks; she had never been in a man's bed before. If it had been anyone else, the prospect would have frightened her. But this was Draco's bed, and he would never harm her. He had promised, after all.

"You're welcome, love," Draco said, before leaning down to kiss her forehead.

When he turned around and started walking toward a sofa that was positioned before a crackling fireplace, Hadara's brow furrowed. Why would he be going . . . ? Oh! Like a true gentleman, Draco intended to sleep on the sofa and let her have his bed. But what if the distance was still too great? What if he fell asleep and she woke up, knew she was in his presence, but couldn't feel the magic shields? Morgana, that would be even worse.

"D-Draco?" Her voice trembled. Was she really going to ask him this? If word about this got out . . . but for once, she didn't care what rumors were spread about her. Knowing the truth was enough for her.

He halted, back facing her. "Yes, love?"

She needed him—here, with her. "You know I trust you, right?"

Draco's shoulders hunched, as if she had struck him a great blow. "Yes, love."

"Then will you . . ." She stretched a hand out toward him, even though he wasn't looking. "The bed's big enough for both of us," she whispered. Her face flamed, but she wouldn't withdraw her statement. If he acceded to her request, she knew it would be hard for him. But she wasn't kidding when she said that she trusted him. He had proven himself to her so many times over the past two months. She could trust him with this too.

Draco turned around, and his eyes were molten mercury. They ignited with passion. "Love, you don't know what you're asking of me," he said, hands twitching at his sides.

"I do, my lord," she said. His eyes brightened further at the address as he stalked back to the bed and clasped her outstretched hand between his. "I'm sorry to make such a difficult request, but I . . ." She acknowledged her weakness. "I need you."

"Hadara, I—" Draco reached forward and caressed her cheek, before sliding his hand into her hair. He stroked the silken blonde strands, indecision once again warring on his face.

"Please, Draco. _Please_," Hadara begged, tears gathering in her eyes again. She was so tired. More than anything else in the world, she wanted to sleep right now. And being safe in her fiancé's arms was the only way she knew to make that happen for any length of time.

His features settled, determination etching his jaw. "As my lady commands."

"Thank you, my lord," she replied. Hadara kissed his hands, which were just now releasing hers, and slid over in the bed. She held up the covers for him; it felt like an eon before he joined her on the bed. But he kept his word to her and settled beside her, painfully still. Sighing, Hadara rolled over and fit herself against his side. He trembled, and she kissed his neck in gratitude. "Thank you."

Draco tentatively wrapped an arm around her, hugging her closer to his chest. He nuzzled her hair and inhaled. "Hadara," he whispered, voice thick with awe, as if he were enjoying the best dream ever.

Sleep was quickly overcoming her now that she felt safe. She propped her chin on his chest and smiled up at him. "I love you, Draco."

Draco bent down just enough to claim her lips. The kiss didn't last long, but she melted into it. "I love you, too."

Thoughts finally relaxed enough to flit to the following day, Hadara whispered, "Draco, what if your parents don't like me?"

"Oh, love, you don't need to worry about that," he assured her. He caressed her back soothingly, fingers skimming over her nightgown. "Don't even entertain the thought."

"You promise?" Hadara inquired, even as sleep started to take over. She wanted his parents to like her; she wanted to be part of a family. And she had been partially responsible for the two or so months Lucius spent in Azkaban before he was released. Those truly loyal to the Dark Lord had died when he did. Those who had actually been Imperiused were set free.

"I promise," Draco said.

That was more than good enough for her. Hadara snuggled closer to him and slept.

* * *

The alarm was loud and obnoxious. Hadara grumbled and groped under her pillow for her wand, but it wasn't there. When her questing hand met nothing, her eyes jerked open. Where was her wand? She registered its presence in her forearm holster, which she usually removed to sleep, at the same time the annoying noise silenced. It was also then that she realized the heavy weight around her waist had shifted.

Hadara blinked several times, but the bare chest was still beneath her. What in the world? She glanced up and met Draco's gaze; his eyes were half-lidded and smoky with passion. "Morning," she squeaked, as the events of the previous evening played out in her mind. Before she bothered to consider the consequences of her actions, Hadara leaned down and kissed Draco. Her hands burrowed into his hair.

Moments later she was on her back as Draco leaned over her and licked his way into her mouth. He had never kissed her like this before. It was glorious. He tasted like power and safety. She hooked her arms around his neck and pressed closer, only for him to pull back and swing his legs off the bed, shoulders hunched and head in his hands.

"Draco?" Morgana, was that her voice? It didn't sound anything like her; it was husky, deep, and breathy.

He leapt off the bed and toward a door she hadn't noticed the night before. "I need to take a shower," he said before hurrying inside and shutting it behind him.

"He smelled fine to me," Hadara said as she sat up in bed. There was a large mirror along the far wall, and her reflection startled her. Her hair was wild and free, her lips were red and plump, and her chest was heaving. She looked debauched. "Oh." She folded her knees up to her chest and rested her head on them. "I'm sorry, Draco. I'm so sorry." He had proven that she could trust him, but she hadn't made it easy on him.

Hadara got out of bed, wincing as the cold floor made her toes curl. Where had she lost her slippers last night? She glanced around the bedchamber, but she didn't see them anywhere. "Dobby!" she called.

The house-elf appeared in the room without a sound. He gazed at her, eyes seeming wider than normal. "Missus Potter, what's you doing being in Master Draco's bedroom?"

She wasn't in the mood to explain herself. Her weaknesses were personal; it had been hard enough to share them with Draco. She wasn't going to willingly share them with anyone else. "It doesn't matter," she said. She looked down at Dobby and ignored that he was wringing his ears. "Can you bring the dress robes I bought for today, and put my other things on the train, please?" she queried. Today was the start of the Yule break, and she was spending it at Malfoy Manor with her future family.

"But Missus Potter, this is being Master Draco's _bedroom_," Dobby stressed.

"I know, Dobby," she ground out, wishing he would drop the subject. "Will you help me or not?"

"Yes, Dobby will being helping," he replied. He snapped his fingers and the dress robes—that she had specially ordered for formally meeting his family—appeared on the bed. Another snap of his fingers resulted in a door materializing behind her. "Yous not being using Master Draco's bathroom," Dobby insisted, face appalled.

Hadara rolled her eyes. "Thank you, Dobby." She picked up her robes—and the accessories he had brought her, as well—and walked into the bathroom he had linked to Draco's chambers. After shutting the door, she sighed and started preparing for the day. It was a hair-washing day, which meant that her shower lasted significantly longer than it would on a normal day. Feeling self-conscious at the thought of meeting Lady Narcissa Malfoy—who was stunning—her future mother-in-law, Hadara used all of the grooming charms she could remember. Her body hair washed down the drain, her nails were neat and manicured, and her teeth were sparkling white. She dried her hair while twisting it around her wand, so that it sprang into tight curls. It only shortened the mass to several inches below her hips.

The Malfoy family colors were silver and green—like Slytherin's. It was a good thing that she looked pretty in both. The dress robes were the color of her eyes; they hugged her form from the base of her neck to the bottom of her hips, before flaring out around her. They had cap sleeves that were barely there, and came with elbow-length, silver lace gloves and matching slippers. The constellation Draco was embroidered around the skirt of the robes.

She picked up the last piece of the ensemble, a silver lace veil. She had no idea how to attach it. Draco would, though, right?

Hadara perused her reflection, shocked at how resplendent she appeared. She hadn't consulted Draco before ordering them, and he hadn't mentioned anything about formal robes. But she figured that had more to do with him worrying about pressuring her. She had done the research herself, determined to make a good impression on his parents. The last thing she wanted was for them to think she was a ruffian.

"I hope he likes it," she muttered before opening the door and stepping back into his bedroom.

Draco was standing before the fireplace, his back to her. He turned when she entered the room. He wore silver trousers beneath a tunic that matched her dress. They gaped at the sight of each other. "Merlin, Hadara, you look . . ." He strode forward and twined his finger around one of her ringlets. "It's down." His voice was both loving and deeply disapproving.

"I know. I need your help," she said, before proffering the veil.

He pecked her on the cheek before pointing to a chair that matched his writing desk. "Have a seat, love." After she sat down, he started twirling each curl closer to her head, and then whispered a spell. It held in place, and he started on the next. And the next. And the next.

Curious, she reached up to touch one of the ones he had secured. Her fingers met a small metal ball. "Hair beads?" she asked.

"Yes, love," he replied absently, attention still focused on his task. He finished a few minutes later and stepped back with a smile on his face. "Lovely." He gently tugged the veil from her fingers and then secured it with the same spell. It stopped halfway down her nose, the lace soft and smooth against her skin. "Almost perfect," he said. Before she could ask what was missing, Draco opened a drawer of his desk and removed a large, velvet box.

She accepted it with shaking fingers. "Draco?"

"Open it," he commanded, before kissing her neck.

Hadara obeyed, mouth falling open at the sight of the enormous gray diamond. It was suspended on a delicate looking silver chain. "Draco?"

"I know the traditional Potter gift is a hair comb, and I promise I'll get you one, but the traditional Malfoy gift is a pendant. I wanted you to have it before you officially met Mother and Father," Draco said. He took it from her hands and clasped it around her neck. Then he kissed her neck again.

"I don't need a hair comb," Hadara said as she touched the pendant. "I'm a Malfoy, not a Potter."

Draco's fingers spasmed and clamped down on her shoulders as he sucked in a sharp breath. "Mother will kill me. Mother will kill me. Mother will kill me," he whispered repeatedly.

"Draco?" Why was he saying that? She turned around to see that his eyes sparked with desire more than they had this morning. Apparently, he _really_ liked it when she said she belonged to him, intentionally or not.

"We need to leave. Now," he gritted out.

Hadara cursed herself for hurting him like this and nodded. "Okay. We can go." She stood up, loathing the moment his hands fell from her shoulders. However, he twined his fingers with hers just seconds later. She relaxed and headed out of the room; he followed her. Soon enough they were out in the corridors, walking up to the entrance hall. They had missed breakfast, but she wasn't particularly hungry. She was slightly nauseous at the thought of meeting Narcissa Malfoy. What if Narcissa didn't think Hadara was good enough for her only son?

As childish as it might sound, considering she was seventeen years old, and an adult in the eyes of wizarding law, she wanted a loving mother. She had always dreamed of having a mother—ever since she had been a young child. When she had learned that her own mother was dead, she had thought she would never truly have one. And then she realized, at thirteen, that when she got married she would have a mother. It wouldn't exactly be her mother . . . per se, but she would still have one. Narcissa Malfoy née Black was famed for her beauty, poise, power, and grace. Was Hadara beautiful enough to be her daughter? Was she graceful enough? The only thing Hadara didn't worry about was if she were powerful enough; she had that one covered in spades.

Before she knew what was happening, she was sitting next to Draco in the Head Students' compartment on the Hogwarts Express. She didn't even remember the carriage ride down to the station.

She couldn't stop her worry from spilling out. "Draco, what if she doesn't like me?"

Draco stared down at her, a frown on his face. "Who?"

"Your mother," Hadara whispered, lips quivering. It was, perhaps, her greatest fear at the moment. She knew Draco loved her and would marry her no matter what . . . but she really, really wanted his mother to like her.

Draco's eyes softened. "Mum's always wanted a daughter, Hadara. She'll love you. I wouldn't be surprised if she comes to love you more than me."

"You're jesting!" she declared. How could a mother ever love someone more than her own child? The mere idea was impossible!

Draco kissed her forehead. "It'll be fine, love. I know that she'll love you. People can't help but fall under your charms. It's not easy to capture the heart of a Malfoy, after all."

She smiled up at him, worries soothed for now. "No, I don't imagine it is." She leaned her head against his shoulder and stared out the window at the passing scenery. Snow covered most everything, making the world seem innocent. She knew differently. She had seen the horrors firsthand, and she never wanted to see them again.

The door to their compartment opened, admitting Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger. Hermione had been kind to Draco ever since the engagement, likely because it left Ron disillusioned to the belief that Hadara would ever see him as more than a brother. Ron still hated Draco, he left no doubt about that, but he had learned to hold his tongue on the matter. Whenever he started defaming Draco's character, Hadara would lock his tongue to the roof of his mouth and then leave for hours. He would always be her friend, but he needed to open his eyes to reality. There was nothing romantic between them.

"Hadara, you look beautiful," Hermione said. She beamed at them.

"Thank you, Hermione. You look good, too." Hermione had managed to permanently straighten her hair, and it made a noticeable difference.

"Malfoy," Hermione said with a nod of acknowledgement.

Draco nodded in return. "Granger." He glanced at Ron and managed not to sneer; Hadara was impressed. "Weasley."

Ron grunted and plopped down next to the window on the opposite bench. He kept glancing at Hadara from the corner of his eye. She sighed and decided to ignore it. It would just take time for him to accept what was happening.

The train-ride passed in silence. Several hours into it, Draco stretched out along the bench and rested his head in Hadara's lap. She petted his hair as he napped. Ron ground his teeth, but refrained from speaking. She was grateful for that. Today, of all days, she really didn't want to fight. When the whistle sounded, she caressed Draco's cheek. "Draco?"

"Hadara?" he asked, before nuzzling her stomach.

She grinned as butterflies fluttered through her. "Time to wake up."

"Don't want to. Comfortable." He pouted at her.

Hadara laughed. "Sleeping fiancé's don't get kisses," she whispered. He sat up so quickly that it made her neck hurt just watching.

"I'm awake!" he declared. The grin on his face was roguish.

She needed a distraction—anything to take her mind off the fact that she was about to meet Narcissa Malfoy, her future mother. So Hadara leaned forward, a wicked smirk on her face, and whispered, lips brushing against his earlobe, "Later, when we're alone, I'm going to kiss you so deeply that it feels like I'm drawing your heart out through your throat." Draco gasped. "I'm going to kiss you until all you can think about is me." He shivered. "I'm going to kiss you until I literally can't breathe, and then I'm going to faint in your arms." He groaned. "And you're going to carry me to bed, wrap me in your magic, and keep me safe all night." She kissed his cheek as she drew back, teeth grazing his jaw. His pupils were enormous. His hands clenched against her back in fists.

"Dara," he breathed. He shortened her name for the first time, and spoke it with such need that she had to bite her lip to keep her composure.

"What in the world did you say to him?" asked Hermione, mouth flapping open and shut.

Hadara craned her neck to look at her friend and cursed her pale complexion when she felt a blush rise. "Nothing you need to hear," she said resolutely. What she had said was private, and not for public consumption—not even among close friends.

"You're lucky Ron's not here," Hermione said. "He would have pitched a fit at"—she waved her hand between Hadara and Draco—"this."

"It's none of his business," Draco spat before rising to his feet. He offered a hand to Hadara and helped her up after she accepted it. "It's time."

Hadara swallowed. She could do this. "Okay. Okay." She followed him down the corridor, pulling his magic closer to her with each step she took. He didn't complain, merely added more layers to the shields. Finally, they got out of the crowded passageway and stepped onto the platform.

Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy were easy to spot—blond beacons that they were. The area immediately around them was empty. It didn't surprise her. Lucius Malfoy had never struck her as the type of man who would let anyone touch his wife. And, given their position in society, a certain amount of respect was afforded them. The closer she and Draco drew to them, the more nervous and choked up she became. Narcissa wore pale blue robes with silver accents; her hair was perfectly coiffed; she resembled a marble statue of Aphrodite.

When they reached them, Draco stopped and inclined his head. "Father, Mother, may I present my fiancée—Lady Hadara Potter?"

Hadara lifted the hem of her robes and curtseyed. She had been practicing everyday, wanting to get it just right. What was she supposed to do next? Oh, right! She looked down at the ground. A pair of silver slippers (obviously Narcissa's) entered her line of sight. She held her breath as a glove-covered hand reached forward and grasped her chin. The moment contact was made, Hadara froze. A magical thread flared to life in her mind. It was warm and caring; it tasted like family.

Narcissa was a Black. Hadara's grandmother was Dorea Black. She hadn't given much thought to their distant relation before. Now, though, she could feel it—could feel Narcissa. It was brilliant!

Ignoring all the protocol she had studied to make this meeting perfect, Hadara rose from her curtsey and threw her arms around Narcissa. She snuggled her face into Narcissa's neck and sobbed, "Mum!"

"Hadara!"

"Darling!" Draco and Lucius said in unison.

Hadara knew she should care that she was making a scene, but she couldn't. She just couldn't. It finally felt like she had a family—a mother. It was the culmination of a lifetime of childhood dreams. Shaking arms enveloped her, and she smiled through her tears. Narcissa, unsurprisingly, smelled like the narcissus flower. It was a subtle, lovely fragrance.

"I'm here, ma fille," Narcissa said, voice sounding thick with tears. "I'm here." Narcissa stroked her back.

"I missed you," said Hadara. She felt silly after she had spoken, because the words didn't make very much sense. She had never met Narcissa before. The only time she had ever seen her was at the Quidditch World Cup four summers ago.

"I missed you, too." Narcissa hugged her tighter. "I've waited a very long time for you, ma fille. Such a long time."

It took Hadara a while to understand what Narcissa meant, but then she remembered the articles in the _Daily Prophet_ over the summer. None of Voldemort's followers had ever had more than one child after being branded with the Dark Mark. Since Lucius had been Imperiused into accepting it . . . that meant Narcissa would've been unable to bear any daughters. The same monster that had stolen Hadara's mother had stolen Narcissa's future daughters from her.

She was intimately aware with the type of hatred and loneliness that engendered.

"Darling, I think now would be a good time to leave," Lucius said. "The reporters are approaching." His voice was the softest that Hadara had ever heard it.

"As you wish, Lucius," Narcissa replied. She didn't loosen her hold on Hadara, though. In fact, she tightened her grip and turned on heel, taking Hadara back to Malfoy Manor with her.

Hadara gasped and stumbled, eyes closing in bliss. She had never been inside an ancestral manor before. It was _mind-blowing_, to say the least. "It's like drowning in Draco's magic," she whispered.

"That's an apt way to put it, ma fille, though it feels like Lucius's magic to me," said Narcissa. She lowered her arms and stepped back. "Now, let me look at you." Grinning, eyes wet like Hadara's, Narcissa walked around her. She stopped in front of her and brushed her thumb beneath Hadara's eyes. "If they weren't emerald green, I could almost imagine you were my own daughter."

Hadara beamed at her. She was pretty enough to be Narcissa's daughter! This was so beyond what she had imagined, that she kept wondering if she would wake up to find she had dozed off on the train.

"Don't you agree, Lucius?" asked Narcissa.

_Lucius?_ When had Lucius and Draco arrived? She couldn't remember hearing them Apparate into the room at all.

Lucius strode forward and cupped her chin, turning her to face him. The smile on his face was gentle, and the first she had ever seen there. "Yes, I do."

Flushing, Hadara averted her eyes. Her gaze landed on a wooden chair; its legs were unicorns rampant, and the back was a foot tall with the constellation Draco carved into it. "This is my room!" she declared ecstatically. She spun around to make sure; the dressing table, loom, and rest of the familiar furnishings from the Room of Requirements were all present. This was the dressing room of the Heiress Malfoy suite.

"How did you know?" Narcissa asked.

"Hmm? Oh! Draco showed them to me at school," she replied as she ran her fingers over the back of the chair. Draco insisted on brushing her hair for her as she sat in it every night.

"And how did you accomplish that?" Lucius asked his son.

"There's a room on the seventh floor that will turn into whatever you desire. I believe I mentioned it before in my letters," Draco replied. Hadara felt his eyes on her the whole time he was speaking.

"You did," Lucius replied. "It's a pity I didn't learn of that while I was at Hogwarts. It sounds imminently useful."

Hadara opened a door; it led to a beautifully appointed bedchamber. The bed was massive, and looked as comfortable as the one in the Head Boy's chambers. She twirled around and asked, "Draco, is this our room?"

Draco choked, paled, and took a step backward. "I . . ." He looked terrified all of a sudden, and she couldn't understand why. It was a perfectly realistic question. Was this, or was this not, their bedroom?

"_Draco Lucius Malfoy_," Narcissa said, voice bitterly cold, "would you care to explain to me why Lady Hadara is under the impression that you will be sharing a bedchamber?"

Gulping, Draco shook his head.

"That wasn't a request," Narcissa snapped.

"Father—"

"Oh, no. I'm not getting in the middle of this," Lucius interrupted. He winked at Draco, as if proud of him. "You brought this on yourself."

"I'm waiting, Draco," said Narcissa; she started tapping her foot.

Draco paled further.

"I don't understand what the problem is," Hadara said, gaze darting between the three Malfoys. Narcissa looked royally pissed, Lucius looked amused and sympathetic, and Draco looked scared to death. What was the big deal?

"The problem, ma fille, is that you think you'll be sharing a room with Draco," Narcissa said. She glanced over at Hadara, worry marring her features.

"Well . . . yes. I don't see how that's a problem." She felt slow, like she was missing something blatantly obvious. But she honestly didn't see what was wrong with sharing a room with Draco. She had slept better last night than she had in months, and she didn't doubt that he felt the same.

"You won't be sharing a room with Draco," Narcissa said.

Hadara flinched backward as if the words had been a blow. They were spoken with such unchangeable faith—the _don't argue with me_ tone that Aunt Petunia always used. "But why?"

And then Narcissa spoke some of Hadara's least favorite words in the world. "Because I said so."

Turning her back on Narcissa, Hadara pretended to study the tapestry on the wall as she battled back tears. Of course Narcissa wasn't really her mother. So why should Narcissa listen to her or give her opinion any credit? It was going to be like living with another Aunt Petunia—only a beautiful and rich one. She fisted her hand over her heart and wished the pain away. It was stupid to feel betrayed by someone she had just met. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid!

Maybe if she told Narcissa about why she had to share a room with Draco . . . _Because I said so._ She winced. It wouldn't make any difference.

"That's enough, Mother," Draco said, voice implacable.

"I agree. You'll be returning to your own—"

"No, I won't." The stunned silence behind her made Hadara wonder if Draco had ever interrupted his mother before now.

The sound of Draco's footsteps, she would recognize them anywhere, filled the room. He stopped behind her and rested his hands on her shoulders, before nestling his chin on her head. "Yes, Hadara, these are our rooms."

"Draco," Narcissa said warningly.

"Forgive me, love," he whispered before kissing her hair.

"For what?" asked Hadara. He hadn't done anything that she needed to forgive him for. He was so good to her. What could she possibly need to forgive?

Draco said, "She suffers from bond withdrawal at night, Mother." He pressed Hadara against his chest, as if to keep her from fleeing. "I've never heard of anyone suffering this badly from it before. But then, it's not all that surprising considering her past. Unless I'm shielding her at all times now, she can barely function. Other than my bond, the only one she has is to Lady Longbottom, and we all know what shape she's in to fulfill her responsibilities as godmother."

"I . . . I didn't know," Narcissa said brokenly. "I thought—well, you know what I thought."

"In light of this new information, you will, of course, be allowed to stay with Lady Hadara," Lucius said.

Hadara closed her eyes and wished that she could disappear. Now that they knew how broken she was—how fragile she was—why would they want her as part of their family? Ever since Sirius had died, making her brain feel jagged, she had done her best to fake being strong. But each passing month had grown increasingly harder. After the first time Draco brushed her hair, she had felt stronger. But the longer they were apart, the worse she felt. Sometimes it seemed like he was the only thing keeping her safe and sane.

"Thank you," Draco said, as his hands stroked her sides.

"But Draco, I expect you to be a perfect gentleman. Don't disappoint me in this," Narcissa said. "She deserves a _bonding_."

"Believe me, Mother, I know what she deserves. I'd rather die than lose the chance to bond with her," Draco said. Hadara let the words wash over her as she curled her fingers around the pendant he had given her that morning.

Between one blink and the next, Narcissa was standing before Hadara. She cupped her cheek. "I'm sorry, ma fille. I didn't understand."

Hadara forced her lips into a smile. "It's fine."

"No," Narcissa said, shaking her head, "it really isn't. I'm afraid I have the bad habit of jumping to conclusions. As a bonded woman, your comment didn't sound as innocent as it was meant."

Blushing for what felt like the millionth time that day, Hadara averted her eyes. "You don't have to worry, you know. Draco loves me. He wouldn't hurt me. I trust him."

"Yes, ma fille, I know," Narcissa said, chagrinned. "Why don't you rest? We'll have dinner at seven."

Even after all this, even after finding out about her weakness, they still wanted her to stay. She hadn't felt so safe and accepted in her life. "That sounds nice."

"We'll see you then," Narcissa said before leaving the room with Lucius.

"Forgive me?" Draco begged, voice tortured. "I had to make her understand, or she never would've allowed me to stay with you."

"I don't even entirely understand what you said, Draco. Am I broken?" she asked. What was bond withdrawal? Alice Longbottom was her godmother?

"No!" he rushed to assure her. He spun her around and stared down into her eyes. "You aren't broken, love. Your bonds are just a little . . . damaged. Everything will be fine when we bond. I promise," Draco said.

"On Yule?" she asked hopefully. It was less than two weeks away, and she had heard several girls regaling over how they simply must bond on Yule when they finally found the right wizard. She didn't have to worry about that part; she already had the right one. Yule must possess some magical significance, though she didn't know what it was.

"You'll be ready by Yule?" he asked, visibly stunned.

"I'll be ready whenever you want me, Draco," said Hadara. She loved and trusted him. They would be happy together; she could feel that in her bones. That was all she needed to know.

His pupils dilated. "What are you doing tonight?" he croaked.

Hadara laughed. He was so, so—Draco Malfoy. Still. Thank Morgana for that. "I think your mum really will kill you if you don't give her at least a weak to plan it."

Draco groaned. "Right. At least a week. You're right." He hung his head. "That's forever!"

"Would you like me to cheer you up?" she inquired. She hated that pained look on his face. It made her heart ache.

"How are you going to accomplish that?" asked Draco.

"I thought I would try _this_." As she fulfilled her promise from the train, black dots dancing before her eyes, Hadara thanked her lucky stars that she had made such petty, careless comments about her hair two months ago. If she hadn't . . . well, she wouldn't have been about to faint in the arms of the love of her life, would she?


	25. Underneath the Mistletoe

**Title:** Underneath the Mistletoe

**Pairings:** Harry Potter/Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley/Lavender Brown

**Warnings:** AU-HBP and very different tone from usual.

* * *

Harry Potter stormed up the stairs to Gryffindor tower, magic swirling about him. If one more little girl—seriously, the last one had been a second year!—sauntered up to him and curtseyed or batted her eyelashes at him, he was going to go mental. He preferred life back when he was simply the blasted boy-who-lived and had no idea about the Potter and Black Lordships. Unfortunately, the cursed titles attracted the pureblood brats like fleas on a mutt.

Now, don't get him wrong. Harry didn't hate them, per se; he just wished that they all would leave him alone and stop angling to become his future wife. He didn't care how fragile and dainty they were, or any of that rubbish. Why would he ever be attracted to a child? He shuddered. Some of them, crude as it may be to say so, had less curves than a pencil. It was just wrong.

"Oh, my lord," he purred, mimicking them as he stomped up the stairs, "I'm so weak. Catch me. Cue swoon." How Malfoy could put up with such ridiculousness on a regular basis, he didn't know. However, his estimation of his childhood rival had risen several notches. Some of the little chits were worse than Parkinson: clingy to the extreme.

He stopped to spin in a circle, and almost fell down the stairs as a result. The girls did that all the time, as if to ask: _Aren't I pretty? Look at me! I'm like a china doll!_ Harry had never been attracted to that kind of beauty, though. He didn't want something fragile and untouchable. Dolls were too easy to break. He wanted something that had been through the fires of hell and came out resolute—like a lump of coal that was pressured into becoming a diamond. He wanted fire, strength, and someone he didn't have to worry about protecting all the time.

Harry desired a witch who could bloody well take care of herself. Her own magical prowess should be enough to keep her safe—not threats of his family name or magic. His mum had died to keep him safe, and he would expect the same from his future wife. Unless someone was willing to sacrifice everything to be with him, and always remain with him, then they weren't worthy of his attention, let alone a passing glance.

Sprinting up the last few stairs, Harry skidded to a stop before the portrait. What was the password again?

"Password, dearie?" the fat lady asked.

"Um . . ." What was it? He knew it had been changed last night, but he couldn't remember what Hermione Granger had said the new one was. He had been exhausted last night, and had too much trouble paying attention. McGonagall was surely going to slaughter his essay with red ink.

"Well?" the fat lady asked.

"Can't you just let me in?" grumbled Harry. She had been the guardian portrait since he was a first-year, excluding that short time in third year. There was no doubt that he belonged in Gryffindor.

"Of course not, dearie. You might be Polyjuiced," she replied.

Well, he couldn't discount that possibility. After all, that was how he and Ron Weasley had snuck into the Slytherin common room back in second year. So Harry, quite impatient at this point, snapped, "Well, I'm not!"

Thankfully, the portrait swung open as a third-year hustled out, dodging wild-eyed around Harry. "S-sorry, Potter!"

Instead of asking "What for?" Harry just said, "It's fine." He didn't remember the boy's name, but he was probably a pureblood. Ever since he had gotten to Hogwarts for the start of his sixth year, the girls had been bombarding him with their 'charms', and the boys apologized for no reason or tried to befriend him. He knew it had to do with allies and hierarchy and all that—had even done the research to figure out why everyone was acting so oddly toward him—but didn't hold with any of that nonsense.

It was easy for him to understand why his godfather, Sirius Black, had rebelled against such rules. If he had been raised in a household that regulated everything from what you could wear, to what you could eat, to what you could say, to whom you could be seen with, then he would have run away, too!

The pureblood heirs and heiresses were like mindless little drones, each desperate to be perfect. It made him laugh. Humans could not be perfect. Their urgent attempts to be flawless just made all the flaws and jagged edges more noticeable. What did outer beauty matter if they were all hideous inside? They were grasping, greedy, envious, selfish, stuck-up, overly proud snobs. And the last thing he wanted to do was get sucked into their circle of influence.

Harry stepped into the common room and then pulled up short. Ron was kissing Lavender Brown on the couch. No, scratch that. Ron was eating Lavender's face. He felt his stomach turn, but, thankfully, his lunch decided not to make a reappearance. _Was that drool_ . . . ? He winced. Gross!

It only took him a moment to wonder where Hermione was once the scene had processed. Hadn't she and Ron been on the verge of finally getting together? That's what he had thought, but now. . . . He found Hermione in the room. She was sitting on a chair, curled up before a window, her face turned to the side. Her fingers were white as they clutched her wand on the arm of the chair. That, more than anything else, told Harry that whatever had happened was Ron's fault. Don't get him wrong: Ron's his best friend, but he tended to overreact when his emotions were involved.

Taking an aborted step forward, Harry chewed his lower lip. His mental tirade about what he wanted in a girl only fit one person that he had ever met. Hermione was the only one who had never truly turned her back on him—not even when she thought he was cheating in Potions by using the Half-Blood Prince's book. And he knew that she was more upset because he didn't require their daily tutoring sessions in that subject anymore. Once she had understood that he wasn't replacing her, she had calmed down and apologized.

Harry had always felt something for her, but he hadn't grasped the depth of it until the battle in the Department of Mysteries. When Dolohov hit Hermione with the purple flames and she collapsed, he had gone spare. For much too long, he had believed her dead. Just as his mother was dead. He had wondered if he was destined to lose all the women who would support him unconditionally . . . but she had lived.

Instead of making a move then, he had backed off. Because anyone with a pair of eyes could see that Ron fancied her. He had assumed she fancied Ron as well. _But maybe_, Harry thought as he watched Ron and Lavender snog, _this will be the straw that breaks the camel's back_.

"Hey Hermione!" Harry yelled, drawing the attention of everyone in the common room as he strode toward her chair. "I was wondering if you'd be my date to Slughorn's Christmas party."

Ron paled, but didn't untangle himself from Lavender.

Hermione's face was conspicuously absent of tears. "Are you sure, Harry?" she asked.

"Of course. I need someone with bony elbows to keep me awake through his speeches. After all, he knows _everyone_," Harry said with great exaggeration and a grin on his face.

"Harry," Hermione tutted. "It's quite rude to fall asleep when someone's speaking." There was a gentle smile on her face, though. Her brown eyes sparkled.

"So, what do you say? Will you put me out of my misery and be my arm candy?" Harry teased, eyebrows wiggling playfully.

Hermione stood, slapped his arm, and then put her hands on her hips. "Harry Potter, I am no man's arm candy!" He wouldn't have been surprised if she stomped her foot for emphasis, as she had done when she was younger. She didn't this time, and he found that he missed it. Her passion was something he adored about her personality; she didn't believe in quitting.

Smirking, Harry rubbed his arm. She hadn't hit him that hard, but he would play it up for their audience. "Abuse! Are prefects allowed to slap students?"

"Oh, Harry," she sighed with fond exasperation.

"Fine, Hermione, I give in. Will you allow me to be your arm candy at Slughorn's Christmas party?" He batted his eyelashes at her, silently mocking all the little girls who thought they could lure him in like a fish on a line. "I promise I clean up well."

Hermione's laughter was warm and delightful; it was also contagious. He found himself laughing with her, as usually happened. "I don't know if you're sweet enough to be arm candy, Harry," she teased back.

Before Harry could retort, a younger Gryffindor with wiry blond curls stepped over to Harry. "Lord Potter, she's a . . . Muggle-born," the boy said, pausing before the last word, as if it had been a rushed substitution.

Hermione's eyes darkened with pain, and she fell silent. Harry ground his teeth together and reminded himself that he wasn't supposed to curse or hex kids. That would make him a bully; he had no desire to be anything like Dudley Dursley. "What's your name?"

"Eoghan McLaggen," the boy replied with a smile, shoulders straight.

_Probably Cormac McLaggen's younger brother. There should've been a school rule that only one massive git could be allowed per house_. _But then, most of the students wouldn't be able to get an education, would they_? "Thank you," Harry said. Then he looked down his nose and asked, "Do you think I'm an idiot, Eoghan?"

Eoghan gulped and shook his head. "N-no," he stuttered.

"Then why would you think that someone's blood status matters to me?" asked Harry. The implication was blatant: _Anyone who worries about another's blood status is an idiot_.

"I-I just . . . . You're Lord Potter," Eoghan finished.

"Really? I had no idea. Thank you for informing me. I'll just change everything about myself to coincide with the pureblood ideology, shall I? Would that suit you?" inquired Harry, sneering.

"Harry," Hermione admonished, breaking the silence that fell after his comment. "Be nice! He's just a child."

Harry snorted and looked away from the cringing boy. Her refusal to let anyone be bullied, though he was most assuredly not bullying Eoghan, made him want to have her at his side always. He trusted her to stand firm and tell him when he was taking something too far; he trusted her to ground him, and to remind him that sometimes he had to be the adult in a situation. Perhaps that was the secret of true love in the Potter family: finding a woman who was equally as strong and wouldn't cave to any pressure. "He's old enough to know better."

"Well, yes . . ." Hermione couldn't help but agree.

"Hermione, would you go with me to the Christmas party?" Harry asked again, as if they had never been interrupted.

"Y-you really don't care that she's a Muggle-born?" inquired Eoghan, seeming confused and stunned.

Harry sighed. Honestly, he felt bad for the purebloods. They were basically brainwashed from birth to believe a certain way, and because of that they couldn't handle failure, changes, or spontaneity. They had no real coping skills, and the Muggle world would eat them alive. It was a fatal weakness, and not one that he would help perpetuate. "No, I don't care." He bent down and spoke with absolute clarity. "My mum was a Muggle-born. If a Muggle-born was good enough for my father, then a Muggle-born is good enough for me, despite the excessive titles I'm given."

Hermione beamed at him, her cheeks turning a fetching shade of red.

"Y-you'd bond with her?" Eoghan asked.

"We're only sixteen!" Hermione protested, face rubicund. "That's much too young to be thinking about—"

"Sure I would," Harry replied with a shrug. "When we're older, of course. Not right now. I still have to kill Voldemort, after all."

Eoghan squeaked and paled.

"And graduate," Hermione interjected.

Harry chuckled. "And graduate. But when we're older, why wouldn't I? She's Hermione," Harry said, as if that settled the issue. To him, it did. Hermione was strong, faithful, loyal, dependable, intelligent, and pretty. What wasn't to like? "Assuming, of course, that she'd have me," Harry concluded with a goofy grin.

"Well of course I'd have you, Harry! You're _you_, aren't you?" She fluttered her hands, as if she had said something brainless and silly. "I mean . . ." Hermione cleared her throat and folded her arms across her chest. "If we should ever reach the point of mutual emotional attachment and respect, then it would be logical to progress to a permanent commitment."

Harry winked at Eoghan. "That means she thinks I'm fit and wants to spend her life with me, bearing genius babies that make Malfoy's kids look like idiots."

"Harry Potter, I did not say that!" Hermione protested, though her lips kept twitching as she slapped his arm again. "Don't put words in my mouth!"

Unable to resist the urge—okay, so _unwilling_ would be more accurate—Harry stepped forward and asked, "Would you rather I put my tongue in it?" In his opinion, all the restrictions on physical contact were the stupidest pureblood rules. He didn't want to throw Hermione on a bed and have his wicked way with her (until she was his wife, because Sirius had told him his dad waited for his mum), but he wanted to be able to hug and kiss her whenever he felt like it, without being required to feel guilty about expressing his feelings.

"I-I . . ." she stuttered.

"You never answered my question," Harry said, feeling happy and smug. It took quite a bit to get Hermione truly flustered. Every time he succeeded, it felt like he had accomplished a Herculean task.

"Yes," she replied, as she jutted her chin out.

"'Yes' you want me to put my tongue in your mouth, or 'yes' you want to go to the Christmas party with me as your arm candy?" he asked. It took every ounce of self-control he possessed to keep a straight face.

Hermione stared him right in the eyes; the smirk on her face was wicked. She stood tall and proud, no longer slouching with embarrassment, even though everyone in the common room was silently watching the unfolding drama. Ron was gawping like a goldfish; it was amusing. "You're smart when you want to be, Harry." She strolled forward, rolling her hips from side to side, and brushed against him, pausing only long enough to say, "Why don't you figure it out?"

Sucking in a deep breath, he shuddered as she moved past him. Oh, he would figure it out. If the Marauder luck held, her answer would be 'yes' to both. He grinned as he pictured attending the Christmas party in fancy Muggle clothes. The purebloods would be utterly horrified. But not as scandalized as they would be when he shoved Hermione against a wall, underneath the mistletoe, and kissed the living daylights out of her. He'd wager that she tasted like courage and knowledge, and he couldn't wait to prove it.

* * *

**Note: **There seems to be a misconception among some of you that I hate certain characters. This is not true. I don't really hate any of the Harry Potter characters. I also never participate in intentional character bashing. What you need to understand is that I write in third person limited, which means you only get one character's thoughts. Hence, the Slytherins think mean things about the Gryffindors—like in canon when they call them blood traitors and Mudbloods—and the Gryffindors think mean things about the Slytherins—like in canon when they call them slimy snakes and the like. Depending on whose head we're in, and what his or her life has been like, he or she will view the other characters differently. I hope that clears everything up for those who were confused, upset, etc.


	26. Whatever the Lord Requires

**Title: **Whatever the Lord Requires

**Pairing:** Harry Potter/Fredericka Weasley, and canon side pairings.

**Warnings:** AU-DH, canon character death, dark, genderbend, not what you're thinking, there was never a Harry/Ginny in this 'verse.

* * *

Harry Potter sat on the bench in the white version of King's Cross Station. Dumbledore had left him to his thoughts, along with the option of returning to the living world. Harry wasn't sure if he wanted to do that. He wasn't sure if he could bear to live without her at his side. Going into the Forbidden Forest to his death had been ridiculously easy, because it meant being with her—finally—even if it was only possible in death. Any next great adventure with Fredericka Weasley would be worth any sacrifice on his part.

"Well, you're not going to stay here, are you?" a husky voice asked. "It's pretty boring, Harry. I don't think you'd like it. And it looks like it'll be lonely."

Harry braced himself and glanced upward. "Hello, Fred." She was as beautiful as always—the same height as George, which made him short for a wizard. Her hair was cropped into a feathery red pixie cut, and her ears weren't pierced. Her blue eyes sparkled with sadness and loss, despite the levity of her tone. She and George had perfected the act of hiding, and, from the back (honestly, sometimes from the front as well) it was impossible to tell them apart unless you knew them.

"Hello." She reached toward him, but dropped her hand back to her side, much to his displeasure. But then, he was accustomed to that by now. Life had kept them apart, and now death was doing the same. Unless he stayed . . . "Shouldn't you be scurrying on back to save everyone?" asked Fredericka. "You're the boy-who-lived!" she teased.

"I'm sure they can handle it," he muttered. What was the point in returning to the living world if she was here? At last, perhaps things would work out. Just this once, hadn't he earned his heart's desire? Was happiness too much to ask for? Why did saving everyone else have to come at the cost of everyone _he_ loved? It wasn't fair!

"That's not the Harry I know," she stated, lips pursed.

Harry leapt off the bench and started pacing, waving his arms wildly through the air. "Yeah, well the Harry you knew was an idealistic idiot! He thought that love could conquer anything! He thought that happily ever afters existed. He thought that he might actually deserve something good in life, after all that he had suffered. Instead, the unrequited love of his life was murdered and he had to die to destroy part of Voldemort's soul." He spun angrily to face her. "So I ask you, what good could possibly come of going back to that hellhole?"

Fredericka looked away from him and whispered, "It wasn't unrequited."

Harry sucked in a breath, stumbled backward, and collapsed to the floor as the words struck him. He had suspected, of course—had desperately hoped when George gave the refutation . . . but to actually hear the words was monumental. "You loved me?"

"Love," Fredericka corrected sharply. "Just because I'm dead doesn't mean my feelings are, Harry."

He laughed. He laughed until he started crying, and then he kept laughing. Because if he stopped for even a second, he knew his mind would fracture into miniscule pieces. _She loved him_. "How long?" he asked through the tears.

Fredericka snorted. "You don't think I'd take a flying car into the Muggle world for just anyone, do you?"

"Oh." Harry blinked. That long? That was even longer than he had been in love with her. "Then why—?"

"Harry, it doesn't matter. You're wasting time. Go back to the real world. Defeat Voldemort. Bond with a nice witch and make baby Potters. Just . . ." She swallowed and glanced away. "Promise not to pick Ginny, okay? I don't think I could handle that."

"No," Harry said mulishly. How could she possibly think that he could just saunter back into real life, bond with a witch, and have children? His feelings—he, himself—weren't that shallow. He wasn't the type of wizard who went through witches like they were chocolate frogs. He'd had a passing fancy for Cho Chang, and another for Luna Lovegood, but neither of them (nor any other witch) ever compared to Fredericka Weasley. Her personality was vibrant, inexcusable, and unlike all of the others who expressed interest. She wasn't the prettiest girl he had ever seen, but she was the most unique. He didn't want what everyone else had; he wanted someone who was one-of-a-kind, and she was certainly that.

She made a buzzing sound. "Wrong answer. I'm not kidding, Harry. Get out of here. Go back."

He stood and folded his arms across his chest. "No."

"Harry," Fredericka said softly, "they need you . . . George needs you."

"I don't care what George needs!" Harry bellowed, heart aching in his chest. "He's the one who bloody well told me that I couldn't court you! He said that as long as Voldemort was alive, he wouldn't let you anywhere near me. Well, he succeeded a little too well. I don't care if Voldemort dies now, because you won't be there to make it all worth it!" He spun around and punched the bench, but didn't feel any pain. He would've been gratified by shattered knuckles, split skin, and blood.

"If you don't leave, I'll never forgive you," she told his back.

Harry chuckled and dragged a hand down his face. "Do you really think I care if you forgive me or not, as long as I get to be with you?"

In answer, Fredericka placed her hands against his back and shoved him. He tumbled over the bench, rolled several feet, and crashed through the barrier. The last thing he saw before returning to the world of the living was Fredericka, balled up on the ground, weeping into her hands. Her mumbled "I love you" obliterated his control.

Harry's eyes opened, and then he was dueling. He didn't know whom he was dueling; he didn't care who he was dueling. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered anymore. Nothing could ever matter again. He flung curses in a daze, only vaguely cognizant of the fact that he shouldn't attack the people who weren't wearing black. There might have been people cheering, yelling his name, and the like, but he wasn't entirely positive. Everything sounded fuzzy and distant, as if whoever was speaking were underwater.

It all passed in a blur until the Elder Wand was in his hand and Voldemort's corpse was at his feet. Harry bit his tongue as he stared at his fallen enemy. He felt nothing. No triumph, no vindication for defeating his parents' murderer, or for taking down the man responsible for the plot that led to Sirius's death. He felt empty—drained—as if a new breed of Dementor had swept down and devoured every emotion that he had ever possessed in his life.

"It wasn't supposed to be like this," Harry whispered.

The Great Hall was silent, except for the sound of a single set of footsteps. A hand dropped on his shoulder, and then George Weasley said, "Harry, I need—"

Harry shrugged George's hand off his shoulder and started walking away. He couldn't deal with this right now. Seeing George alive and hale would kill what little of him remained. George should've been the one lying dead under a pile of rubble. If Harry had been allowed to court her, she would've been safe. But, most importantly, she would've been alive. He had been refused the right to seek Fredericka's hand because it was "dangerous" with Voldemort being after him. Yet, Harry never would've allowed her to die—not like George had.

"Harry, I—"

Bitterness blossomed and filled the emptiness. "So much for a twin brother's protection," he spat. His voice trebled with magic.

George sucked in an audible breath, as did their audience. His magic bristled. "Help me, Harry."

He didn't even have to think about his response. It was rapid-fire. "No."

"_Please_," George begged.

Again, his response was rote and automatic. "No."

"Listen to me!" George screamed, voice raw. The words echoed in the cavernous chamber, lending a haunting, eerie quality to them.

Harry's reply cut like a freshly forged rapier—Fredericka's code name on Potterwatch. "Like you listened to me? I seem to remember you ignoring my request. I seem to remember you doubting my ability to keep my word. Now that our positions are reversed, I just thought I'd return the favor." He remembered begging George to reconsider, swearing that he would keep Fredericka safe. He remembered vowing to hide her in the ancestral Potter manor. But nothing—no assurance—was good enough for George.

"What's going on, mate?" Ron asked, stepping into Harry's line of vision.

"Nothing you need to worry about, Ron," said Harry. Ron didn't deserve his ire; Ron hadn't kept Fredericka away from him. Ron would have trusted Harry with her. He didn't doubt that.

"Harry?" Hermione asked, eyes darting from him to the space behind him, where George must have been.

Now wasn't the best time to explain what he and George were arguing about. He didn't think there would ever be a good time to explain. Ron trusted him so much that (even when Ron had been upset and irrational) he'd left the love of his life alone with Harry in a tent for weeks. George wouldn't trust Harry with Fredericka behind ancestral wards in a manor. The Dursleys hadn't managed to make him feel as unworthy in eleven years as George did in one afternoon. He had to get out of Hogwarts, away from the scene of her death. He was never going to come back here if he could help it. He took a step toward the entrance hall.

"So, you're just going to leave. Is that it? You're going to let her die?"

Harry froze at the accusation.

"You know what, Snape was wrong this entire time. You're _nothing_ like your father. James Potter would've done anything for your mum. You're nothing but a spineless, pathetic, sniveling coward," George spat.

Harry didn't remember moving, but he did hear Mrs. Weasley's hysterical scream when he shoved the Elder Ward in George's throat. He wanted to kill George for . . . "Is that what this is about, George? You want to die? Too cowardly to do it yourself, though, so you thought you could goad me into it." Harry leaned forward, hating how George looked like Fredericka, and whispered, "I'm not going to give you what you want."

"That would be stupid," George stated, "because by giving me what I really want, I can give you what you want."

"She's dead." It took everything he had not to blast George's head off for the insinuations he had made.

"For now," George replied. "And she'll stay that way if you don't do something about it."

Harry jerked backward and narrowed his gaze. If George was toying with him . . . Merlin help him, because no one else would. "What do you mean?"

"You're Lord Gryffindor by birthright and Lord Slytherin by conquest." George leaned forward. "Then, by magical law, Hogwarts' magic is yours to command. With thousands of years worth of magic stored in its stones, surely there's enough for whatever the Lord _requires_?"

Harry tore out of the Great Hall, leaping over stones, fallen suits of armor, and rubble. He sprinted up the staircases toward the seventh floor, commanding them to be still. Being diverted would lead to something very, very bad. His sanity was hanging by an unraveling thread. He didn't care if it took all the magic Hogwarts possessed; he didn't care if the wards fell, or if it exposed wizards to the Muggle world. He had given everything to save the wizarding world from Voldemort, and they _owed_ him. He was going to collect on that debt, regardless of the price that had to be paid.

When he reached the right corridor, he pressed his hand against the wall. _If this doesn't work_ . . . he couldn't bear to finish the thought.

With slow, deliberate steps, Harry paced back and forth. His request was specific_. I require Fredericka Weasley alive, whole, and mine. I require Fredericka Weasley alive, whole, and mine. I require Fredericka Weasley alive, whole, and mine. _

A door materialized in the wall. It bore the Gryffindor and Slytherin crests; they were overlapping. The doorknob was brass and old-fashioned. He stood there, staring at it, unable to open the door. If she wasn't on the other side . . . He shuddered and fisted his hands as several people—mostly Weasleys—skidded around the corner to join him.

"Did it work?" George asked, eyes frantic.

"I-I . . ."

"There's a door. So that means it worked, right?" Ginny asked breathlessly.

Before he could try to formulate an answer, the doorknob twisted. He hadn't touched it. Everyone else was standing behind him. Harry held his breath as the door opened inward. The light from the corridor shone inside and illuminated Fredericka Weasley. Her eyes were red and puffy, as if she'd been pulled directly from her crying jag at King's Cross Station. She was wearing the fanciest robes he had ever seen in his life—Gryffindor colors.

Fredericka fiddled with a massive ring on her left hand, and then glanced shyly up at him. "Hello, Harry."

"H-hello, Fred," he rasped, hands shaking with the need to make sure she was real.

She shrugged. "Sorry for, you know, shoving you off the platform."

Harry reached out and touched her face; it was smooth and warm. Tears gathered in his eyes as he cupped her face with one hand and stroked the bonding ring with the other. "I'm not." If she hadn't, he wouldn't have had a lifetime with her; they wouldn't have had children. Merlin, they were going to have children. And she was wearing his bonding ring. Nothing could ever take her away from him now.

Fredericka chuckled and kissed him gently. "Can I tell you a secret, Harry?" she asked, before kissing him again and again.

How did she expect him to concentrate when she was in his arms? "Um, sure," he mumbled between kisses, after having almost forgotten she asked him something in the first place.

Fredericka snuggled close to his chest and whispered, "Honestly, I'm not sorry either."


	27. With All My Heart

**Title:** With All My Heart

**Pairing:** Ernest Macmillan/Hadrea Potter

**Warnings:** AU, genderbender, and jealousy makes good people say and do mean things.

* * *

"Oh, please. Who would want to bond with Hadrea?" Hannah Abbott snorted. "She's friends with Mudbloods and blood traitors. She'll be lucky if some old pureblood decides to make her his mistress. I'm sure she knows that, at least, with the company she keeps. I'll bet she's too dumb to be careful, too. She'll have to let him kill her illegitimate children." Hannah snickered with Susan Bones.

Hadrea Potter felt her throat swell shut. Not three months ago, she knew neither of the Hufflepuff girls would have ever spoken of her like that. However, things had changed, and it wasn't for the better.

Ever since Ginny Weasley and Dean Thomas had been caught by a fourth-year in an extremely compromising position, rumors had been mounting that she, herself, must be without virtue, since she was close friends with Ginny.

Hannah was the first friend she had overheard spouting such filthy lies.

And how had they made this about her, anyway? Just because she had formed friendships with people who made bad decisions, didn't mean she was a trollop!

If Michael Corner smiled that lecherous smile at her once more, she was going to castrate him and accept the consequences. Azkaban would be better than Hogwarts right now—especially with all the teenage boys who kept subtly (or not) asking if they could sample her wares, as if she were a candy shop that gave out free tastes.

"Not even her precious title as the girl-who-lived can save her reputation now," Hannah gloated. "Ernie will never look at her again!" Hannah grinned with triumph.

That's what this was all about? Ernest Macmillan? Hannah had started all these rumors to keep Ernest Macmillan from looking at her? Weren't Neville Longbottom and Hannah Abbott courting, still? So why should Hannah care if Ernest liked Hadrea?

If Hannah was using Neville to make Ernest jealous . . .

"Oh, you'll pay for that," Hadrea hissed. She wiped the tears from her lashes and straightened her shoulders, head upright and proud. Hannah could be jealous all she wanted, and it wasn't going to change a thing; if Ernest was the slightest bit interested in Hadrea, she'd steal him before Hannah ever had a chance.

As Hadrea took a deep breath and smoothed her styled hair, she admitted to herself that she wouldn't mind having Ernest as her own, even if Hannah weren't involved. The Macmillan Heir had captivated her since they had met in Herbology, and it wasn't one-sided. However, she had never imagined that he might be interested in her: a half-blood (especially after the fiasco in second-year, when he thought she was the Heiress of Slytherin). If she hadn't overheard Hannah just now, she would've always assumed that he tolerated her presence, at best. Now she had hope, small though it may be.

Ernest might be in Hufflepuff, but he had proven himself to be a Slytherin through and through. He would enjoy revenge, cunning, and guile. She knew just how to get him, and how to get Hannah to shut her trap.

Hadrea entered the Great Hall, not too far behind Hannah and Susan. She walked to the Hufflepuff table, to the astonishment of the occupants of the room, and stopped at the middle of the table, the side with its back to the wall—allowing utmost protection—where Ernest held court as Head Boy.

"What do you want, Hadrea?" Hannah asked, face twisted in disgust, as if she smelled something putrid.

Ernest held up his hand to silence her, and then turned his head, focusing on Hadrea and nothing else. "Yes?" he asked, one eyebrow cocked in query.

Hadrea grinned at Ernest and lifted her robes just long enough to show him her ankles, before sinking into a very deep curtsey. "I apologize for the late acceptance, Ernest. I had some matters of estate to attend to, as I'm sure you understand."

Hannah leapt to her feet, body quivering, face red. "How dare you address him by his given—"

"Hush up, Hannah!" Justin Finch-Fletchley snapped as he leaned warily away from Ernest.

"Indeed, I do," Ernest replied as he met her upturned gaze.

"If you can forgive the unbearable rudeness of the lateness of my reply, I would be honored to spend the Yule break at Macmillan Manor, becoming acquainted with my future mother-in-law and father-in-law," Hadrea said. She successfully kept the blush off her cheeks as she spewed one lie after another. _Please let Hannah have been right_, she thought. _Please let him have been casting eyes at me_.

Ernest's eyes softened as a smirk split his face. He offered her his hand, and lifted her out of her curtsey. "Mother and Father will be pleased to hear that, darling. They've been dying to get to know you better. Mother is most insistent on taking you to her milliner and dressmaker in Paris. She's adamant that your trousseau outshine every other ordered this century."

Hannah fainted, and everyone was so riveted on watching Ernest and Hadrea that no one even attempted to catch her before she hit her head on the floor.

Even though it was a lie, it was a sweet one. How wonderful would it be if his parents really did welcome her into the Macmillan family and love her, as her own had been unable to do after their deaths?

Hadrea flushed and averted her eyes. "She doesn't have to do that for me."

"Yes, she does. My future bride deserves top quality," Ernest said as he stroked her cheek. "Macmillans always deserve top quality. Why do you think I fell in love with you, Hadrea?" The words were spoken with painful sincerity.

"Because you didn't know any better?" Hadrea teased as she stepped closer to him at his urging.

Ernest snapped his fingers and Zacharias Smith grumbled and slid down the bench, leaving an open space next to Ernest. He guided Hadrea into the seat and wrapped an arm around her waist. "Oh, I can assure you that I knew precisely what I was doing when I set out to capture you, darling."

"You did, did you?"

"Yes, I did." His tone brooked no argument. Ernest kissed her forehead, and then shifted until Hadrea took the hint and laid her head on his shoulder. "Eat, darling. And after lunch I'll write my parents and tell them you've accepted after all."

"As you wish, Ernest." Hadrea picked up a peach and took a bite, before setting it on his plate. She wasn't all that hungry; she was never hungry when she was nervous.

Once conversation picked up in the Great Hall, speculation and babble drowning out almost all else, Ernest leaned down and spoke in her ear. "_Tell me you meant that_." His voice was harsh and cruel, as if he would greatly like to torture someone if she backed out of their sudden engagement.

Despite the dark tone, she could hear the pain beneath it all. How long had he been interested, while she wasn't paying attention? She couldn't remember him giving any indication of interest, but then, she hadn't looked at him often, in fear that she would reveal where her interests lay. After second year, she was sure that he would never consider her anyway.

"With all my heart, _my lord_," Hadrea whispered.

Ernest's grip became almost excruciatingly tight as he hugged her even closer. "_Mine_," he snarled at her.

Hadrea rolled her eyes and rested her head against his shoulder. She remembered all the nights she had told the girls in the dorm that a possessive man would drive her mental. Some of the purebloods took it so far that they decided who their wives were allowed to converse with, what topics were appropriate, and so on. After a childhood spent with the Dursleys, she hadn't wanted to surrender control to anyone.

"I belong to myself," she whispered. She didn't want to start an argument where others could hear it, but Hadrea couldn't be passive and allow him to think she would accept the strictest pureblood lifestyle. She didn't mind most of the customs, but she wasn't going to be chattel. She deserved better than that.

She could hear the sound of his teeth grinding before he replied. "I know." Hadrea could tell how much it had hurt for him to speak those two words; his eyes appeared to throb with an unrelenting ache. His lips brushed against her hair as he said, "But you'll bond with me."

Hadrea nodded.

"You'll take my name."

Grinning, Hadrea nodded again.

"You'll live in my family manor, in our chambers."

"Yes," she whispered. The image he was painting in her mind inspired a feeling of peace and safety. She hadn't been in an ancestral manor since she was in Malfoy's; his family magic had stabbed at her, as if it would like to fillet her, just to see if her blood was red. Hadrea could only imagine that being in her husband's home would be much more soothing.

Ernest twined his fingers with hers beneath the table. "You'll let me love you, and create a family with you."

Heat singed her cheeks, but Hadrea didn't care. Despite what everyone might think, she didn't want to be an Auror. She was tired of fighting. She wanted to be a mother—to offer love and protection to her children, just as her mother had done for her. "I'm looking forward to it," Hadrea replied cheekily.

His next words were so soft that she almost didn't hear them. "And you'll love me." It sounded like a desperate plea from a broken man, instead of a confident statement from a pureblood heir. What had she been unwittingly doing to him all these years to make him speak like that?

Hadrea stared into his eyes and offered the assurance that was rapidly becoming familiar. It would have to be enough—until he trusted her feelings were real and unwavering. "With all my heart, my lord."


	28. Desires of a Wounded Soul

**Title:** Desires of a Wounded Soul

**Pairing:** Thomas Marvolo Riddle Jr./Haradah Potter

**Warnings:** AU, creepy factor, genderswap, and fiddling with canon implications/elements.

* * *

Thomas Marvolo Riddle Jr. leaned against the doorframe, gaze trailing across the single set of footprints on the dust-ridden floor. He had left them in this abandoned classroom almost a month ago, after stumbling across it during one of his post-curfew shifts as a prefect. The footprints led over to a large, ornate mirror. The cloth that had covered it lay on the floor in a heap where he had dropped it.

"The Mirror of Erised," Tom whispered. He had known what it was the moment he set eyes on it. Researching magical objects and artifacts was one of his preferred hobbies. He couldn't stand ignorance in others, and wouldn't abide such a trait within himself.

Tom had to _know_.

He didn't care what the subject matter was, as long as he could attain a sufficient grasp on the knowledge inherent therein.

Taking an aborted step forward, Tom propped himself against the doorframe again. As usual, it was time for his rounds. He was supposed to be on the fourth floor right now. He was supposed to be keeping a lookout for students breaking curfew—Gryffindors, the lot of them. Ravenclaws couldn't justify it, Hufflepuffs were too scared to break the rules, and the Slytherins weren't imbecilic enough to get caught.

"What would you show me?" he asked.

Last month, he hadn't been able to look in the mirror.

Tom knew himself well, perhaps too well. He knew exactly how far he was willing to go to achieve his goals. He understood what it felt like to make others writhe in agony; Tom could watch people suffer and not feel a thing. After all, what was their suffering in comparison to his? He was the orphaned scion of Salazar Slytherin's great bloodline. He had been raised in a _Muggle_ orphanage, treated like an abomination, ridiculed and bullied by those lesser than himself.

Tom had returned to the world he never should have lived outside of at the age of eleven. Yet he wasn't aware of the customs and rules that should have been taught to him since birth. He hadn't held himself with the right stature, or projected the proper image when he first arrived. The pureblood heirs and heiresses had turned up their noses at his Muggle last name. They had sneered at his inferior manners. He had been an outcast in his own house. He, the legacy of the great Salazar Slytherin, was no better than a common Muggle to many.

He had changed that, though. Tom had thrown himself into his studies. He'd perfected his manners, had stunned them with his brilliance, and awed them with his heritage. Right now, there were students—servants really—who had sworn their lives to his service, sleeping in various dormitories throughout the castle.

"I have so much," Tom said, "and yet nothing at all."

He took a step forward, placing his shoe in the exact imprint in the dust, not disturbing the rest of the mess on the floor. All of his followers, as loyal and obedient as he knew them to be, loved his power, or his name, or his heritage, his blood, or an ephemeral idea of what he could change. They loved the possibility of a future shaped by his power, changed by his genius, and altered by his words.

"But they don't love _me_."

Tom wasn't stupid. He knew the difference between adulation, adoration, and love. As much as he despised the other houses for their weaknesses, he couldn't help the accursed emotion from swelling within his chest: envy.

He hadn't looked into the Mirror of Erised last month, because Tom knew what it would show him: love.

Love was an emotion. It wasn't something that he could buy with the mounds of gold in his vault. It wasn't something he could induce in others—not really. He had briefly used Amortentia on a half-blood witch, just to see what it would feel like to be loved for the first time in his life. At first, he felt powerful, in control, and undefeatable. But when he looked into her eyes, they were glazed and sycophantic. When he kissed her lips, they were pliant and unemotional. When he asked her to give herself to him, she complied without protest, as if her virtue were of no worth. Before she could, he Obliviated her and sent her away.

That wasn't love.

"I'm not my mother," Tom spat into the silence as he walked across the room.

He had been busy over the summer—finding memories, controlling people, killing relatives who denied him. What he had seen (his mother forcing his father to love her) had proven to him that it wasn't possible.

True love couldn't be coaxed, coerced, or consigned.

Tom's future heirs would not be relegated to a Muggle orphanage. His children would be conceived by a wife who loved him; they would be protected and raised in Slytherin castle.

"If they ever even exist," Tom muttered. Bitterness colored his voice, and he did nothing to smother it. The magical world had seemed like a blessing when he learned of it: being with his own kind. Belonging didn't bring love, though. It didn't ease the loneliness that ate away at him. It didn't heal his wounded soul. All it did was remind him of what he didn't have, no matter his power, position, or prestige.

Gaze trained on his yew wand, Tom remembered Abraxas Malfoy's engagement announcement in the morning paper. His _friend_—if he could be coined that—had chosen a flighty, pretty witch, with little intelligence. Tom recalled the shattered look in Sylff Selwyn's eyes at the announcement; the fourth-year had been painfully, visibly in love with Abraxas. At least, Tom thought it was obvious. Instead of accepting that love, Abraxas had stomped on it and cast it aside as if it were unwanted and held no significance.

"I would give much to have someone look at me in such a way," Tom said.

He touched the glass of the mirror, and then glanced directly into it. At first, all Tom could see was his reflection. He was tall, handsome, and his prefect badge shone beneath the light of the moon. Then a blurry outline appeared at his side. The more he tried to focus on it, the fuzzier it became. Until, finally, it snapped into sharp clarity. If he didn't know better, he would say he was looking through a window, and that she stood on the other side of it.

The witch in the mirror had bone-pale skin and peach lips. Her hair was the color of a night meant for Dark Magic rituals. Her eyes were the color of the basilisk's scales. Her cheekbones were as sharp as the Slytherin Athame. There was a scar on her forehead in the shape of a lightning bolt, and Tom wondered if she had been struck by death. The girl was captivating, no doubt, but the cloak hanging down her back made her enrapturing. The invisibility cloak.

"Peverell!" he exclaimed in disbelief.

Tom rubbed his left ring finger, brushing across the Disillusioned ring. It had taken him a while to realize the Resurrection Stone had been set in Slytherin's ring. Once he figured it out, though, he couldn't let it out of his reach. It was both a great weapon and a great protection. If his enemies managed to get it in their grasp. . . . It didn't bear thinking about.

The witch turned to face Tom's reflection, and her eyes overflowed with love the moment she saw him. She lifted her arms and cupped his face, before standing on her tiptoes to kiss him. Tom's reflection crushed her against his chest, arms winding about her body with familiarity and assurance that he was welcome. When the passionate kiss ceased, Tom's reflection caressed her stomach; the grin on his face was radiant and smug. Then he picked her up and spun her around, before showering her face with tender kisses. His eyes were alight with laughter and contentment.

He was loved.

Pressing his hand against the Mirror of Erised, as if he could feel her warmth, Tom spoke the most honest words of his life. "If I could have you, I would never use you. I would protect and cherish you until my dying breath."

The Mirror of Erised blazed with a golden luster, and then dimmed back to its usual appearance. Tom's reflection winked at him, before kissing the beautiful woman _who loved him_.

"W-where am I-I?"

Stunned that someone had been able to sneak up on him, Tom snapped his head to the left, only to bite his tongue before cursing the intruder. There, standing beside him, hugging the Peverell invisibility cloak to her chest, was a little girl. She had bone-pale skin and peach lips. Her hair was the color of a night meant for Dark Magic rituals. Her eyes were the color of the basilisk's scales. Her cheekbones were as sharp as the Slytherin Athame. There was a scar on her forehead in the shape of a lightning bolt, and Tom wondered if splitting his soul had decimated his mind.

"Hogwarts," Tom answered.

Would he truly care if his mind was pulverized, if the hallucination he was gifted with was someone who loved him?

"W-who are you?" she asked. As if just realizing that he could see her, she flipped part of the cloak up, so that it covered her hair like a scarf. Her cheeks tinged the color of flayed flesh.

"Thomas Marvolo Riddle, Jr., Heir of Slytherin," Tom said. He was careful not to brag or gloat, even though he was proud of his heritage. A bloodline wasn't something he had earned; it was something he had no control over. If this was real—_Merlin, for the love of Morgana, please let it be real!_—he didn't want her to think he was an unbearable snob or prattish git.

"Oh!" She tried to keep hold of her cloak and curtsey at the same time. Tom had to catch her when she lost her balance. "I'm sorry!"

Tom could feel her heartbeat thudding rapidly through her clothes. She was warm and solid in his arms, her weight slight and insignificant to him. Her magic rippled across him, causing the Resurrection Stone to flare up against his skin. It illuminated the room, and her cloak began to glimmer like a liquid galaxy.

She was real. She was _here_. However, she was much smaller than she had been in the Mirror of Erised—years younger, in fact.

"What's your name?" he asked, refusing to release her now that he had her.

"Haradah," she whispered, before cringing.

Names were a powerful blessing or curse in the magical world. They helped shape a witch or wizard's destiny. His name meant: _Twin_. Tom had never been destined to be alone; his name cried and pleaded and demanded an equal to stand beside him. Her name meant: _Well of great fear_. At his side, she would have no need to fear. Tom had already committed murder multiple times in his life; he had split his soul. He had tortured, lied, controlled, and stolen. There was nothing he would not do to ensure that this beautiful, fragile child grew up to be the fetching witch who loved him.

Tom set his hands on Haradah's shoulders, and then knelt before her. Her gaze was wary, haunted, and he was determined to fix that. "Haradah, you don't need to be afraid anymore."

"I-I'm not afraid!" she protested. She attempted to straighten her shoulders, but Tom wouldn't let her. He could see her battling terror in the depths of her eyes, and he wanted her to know she didn't have to do that anymore.

He would fight for her.

"I'll fight for you," said Tom, tone resolute. He wanted to protect her innocence; he wanted her to be carefree and happy. He would gladly bathe in the blood of her enemies, and then cast a cleaning charm on himself before tucking their future children into bed. He wanted what his reflection in the Mirror of Erised had possessed, and he would do _anything_ to get it.

Anything except what his mother had done . . . because true love was freely given.

"Do you promise?" she asked. Haradah's lip quivered, and Tom's lungs ached in his chest. If Magic hadn't brought her to him, how much longer would she have been able to fight before everything smoldered to ashes around her? What had her parents been thinking, giving her such a lethal, cursed name?

"I promise." Tom's magic fluttered in the air, stirring up the dust in the room.

Haradah lifted her left hand and extended her little finger to him. The dust in the room shot into the air and spun around them like a tornado at the action. Did she know she was offering him the First Rite of Moste Ancient Hand-fasting under the Olde Magick?

Asking would be the honorable thing. Asking would be proper. Asking would show he was a man of good character.

Tom Riddle took his left hand off her shoulder and curled his little finger around hers without saying a word. He couldn't bear to ask. Besides, he would spend the rest of his life making sure that she never regretted it. He would win her heart, so that she never wanted to withdraw from their now-exclusive courtship.

As Haradah kissed their entwined fingers, her magic crashed against his like a tsunami. The windows in the room blew outward, the sound of fracturing glass almost impossible to hear over the sound of his heart thumping. She tumbled against his chest, and Tom swept her up in his arms, being careful to wrap the invisibility cloak around her.

Her cheek pressed against his shoulder as he stood; there was a gentle smile on her face as she slept. It was overshadowed by the triumphant and overjoyed one on Tom's face as he stared into the Mirror of Erised and saw nothing but their reflection.

Haradah was his now. And, by Mordred the betrayer, she would be his _forever_.


End file.
